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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26984941">Missing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomFandom2387/pseuds/RandomFandom2387'>RandomFandom2387</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Hurt, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:42:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,287</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26984941</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomFandom2387/pseuds/RandomFandom2387</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One week after the Armageddon that didn't happen Aziraphale wakes up in Heaven.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>97</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>116</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I own nothing except the ideas in my head. Work was inspired by the song Missing by For King and Country. This is my first work both in this fandom and ever so please let me know what tags or warnings to add as I was unsure what tags to use. My rating is probably over-cautious, FYI. Constructive criticism is always welcome, as is a beta if someone wants to volunteer.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I own nothing except the ideas in my head. Work was inspired by the song Missing by For King and Country. This is my first work both in this fandom and ever so please let me know what tags or warnings to add as I was unsure what tags to use. My rating is probably over-cautious, FYI. Constructive criticism is always welcome, as is a beta if someone wants to volunteer.<br/>Update: I think I fixed the problem with the footnotes for this chapter appearing on chapter 5.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Consciousness returned gradually to Aziraphale. His eyes weren’t open, but he could tell he was sitting. He mentally assessed his corporation. He didn’t feel any pain, but that didn’t mean much what with adrenaline and his brain working hard to keep him alive. He was sure he had a bit of a knot at the back of his head. He vaguely remembered something hitting him before he blacked out. Aziraphale attempted to open his eyes, but it felt like they were glued together at the seam. The eyelids tugged at his brain’s command, but did not open. Panic began to slip in as his brain began concurrently compiling the information his other senses had gathered.</p><p>The bright, irradiated cleanliness of his former head office coated his tongue like one of those laundry gel pacs, silky, soapy, and overpoweringly floral. Despite the joyless spring time taste in his mouth Aziraphale could pick out something else in the air, something vaguely evil, but warm and familiar. His chair was cold and metallic as he experimentally flexed his arms, which he found were bound at the wrists. The binds weren’t over-tight, but he knew that was going to get uncomfortable soon. The lightest whisper of his name had Aziraphale struggling harder against his body’s insistence on keeping his eyes shut. Crowley was somewhere beyond his eyelids and that couldn’t be good at all. After a bit more mental struggle Aziraphale was able to open his eyes and lift his head, but couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing in front of him.</p><p>Some sort of giant raven seemed to be sitting rather oddly about 10 feet from him. The wings were perched at an odd angle in front of and around the creature, hiding any other features from the angel’s view. He heard the metallic, slithering, hiss of chains on polished marble, but couldn’t see any. For what seemed a long time Aziraphale stared in confusion at the large, lovely pair of wings, a part of his brain insisting that he was looking at something he knew while an adjacent part was drawing an astounding blank on identification. A shudder rippled the iridescent feathers and a small flash of flame caught his eye. <em>Crowley!</em> his brain finally supplied. He was seeing Crowley hunched up and completely hidden by his wings. He realized he must have said his friend’s name aloud when Crowley’s wings unfolded and his head whipped up, eyes squinting at him.</p><p>“Angel?” Despite their clearly dire circumstances, Aziraphale felt warmth suffuse his body at the endearment as a smile tugged at his lips.</p><p>“I’m here, my dear. Are you alright?”</p><p>“Bit sore, and these chains are starting to hurt,” he shrugged, folding his wings back more.</p><p>“What about you?”</p><p>“Oh, I’m fine. Well, relatively speaking, just a couple of bumps.” Crowley studied him from where he sat, as if searching for something in particular. Aziraphale did his best not to blush under the intense scrutinizing of those beautiful, golden…<em>oh dear</em>.</p><p>“Crowley, what happened to your sunglasses?” The demon’s eyes widened for a moment in panic before sliding away from the angel to focus on the highly reflective marble floor, effectively hiding them from Aziraphale.</p><p>“Oh, I am sorry my dear, I didn’t mean…,”he stammered, berating himself. <em>Stupid, stupid angel! You should have just kept your mouth shut!</em></p><p>“ ‘S alright, Angel.” Crowley’s voice cut softly through his recriminations.</p><p>“I just forgot is all.” His lips twisted into what was probably intended as a reassuring smile, but ended up being more of a grimace.</p><p>“Did they take them from you?” Aziraphale asked cautiously. Crowley shrugged, his gaze trained on his fingers idly tracing his sigil on the floor, causing it to spark slightly.</p><p>“Probably. I was ambushed outside my flat and woke up without them.” He scowled heavily.</p><p>“Can’t miracle a new pair either with these blessed chains on.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, dear boy. I would offer to miracle a pair for you myself, but if your powers are being suppressed, I suspect mine probably are as well.” Crowley just shrugged again. Silence filled in the space between them; heavy, thick, and vaguely angelic.</p><p>Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. Who would have thought he’d find the smell of Heaven repugnant after so short a time away? Just over a week ago it was still a semi-comforting odor, something that stirred in him a sense of purpose and belonging,<a href="#foot1" id="foot1back" name="foot1back"><sup>1</sup></a>but not of home. It had done, at some distant point, but that particular association had faded over the millennia.<a href="#foot2" id="foot2back" name="foot2back"><sup>2</sup></a> Heaven could never, with its sharp, defined cleanliness,<a href="#foot3" id="foot3back" name="foot3back"><sup>3</sup></a> smell like home. Goodness, even Crowley’s flat, with its shadowy starkness and questionable statuary<a href="#foot4" id="foot4back" name="foot4back"><sup>4</sup></a> had felt more like home…<em>hmmm.</em></p><p>“Crowley?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Didn’t you tell me you were going to be napping for the next two weeks?” Crowley stilled, his voice careful.</p><p>“Yes…?”</p><p>“So how could you have been ambushed outside your flat?” Crowley huffed out a sigh, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Apprehension knotted in Aziraphale’s stomach alongside something else he didn’t want to examine right now that bubbled pleasantly at the sight of Crowley’s lithe and lovely neckline, both sensations triggering a hitch in his unnecessary breathing.</p><p>“I woke up early,” Crowley muttered, opening his eyes and lowering his gaze until it met the angel’s.</p><p>“Was going to head over to the bookshop and surprise you.” The anxious knot disappeared and the pleasant bubbling turned into warm, tight fluttering as Aziraphale smiled sweetly at his demon. Before he could respond the smell of angelic ozone permeated the air and the least pleasant sound in all creation sounded like a death knell.</p><p>“Aziraphale!” Gabriel strode into existence with Uriel and Sandalphon behind and Michael to the right of him. As always, their formation was perfect, their gait and steps precise. It had always intimidated Aziraphale, who had never managed to achieve such exactness in his own peripateticism.</p><p>Crowley hissed his displeasure at the bevy of angels, standing to as much of his full height as he could considering his shackles. His wings fanned out, bristling with implied violence and dire threats; his eyes as golden as Aziraphale had ever seen them. Gabriel ignored the enraged snake entirely, focusing all of his attention on Aziraphale instead.</p><p>“Welcome back!” He held his arms out and a smile graced his voice and lips, but not his eyes. Aziraphale resisted the instinct to fold in on himself, try to be a smaller target. Instead he sat straighter, meeting the archangel’s gaze and drawing on all the affronted indignation he normally reserved for the awful miscreants who tried to threaten him into selling his bookshop.</p><p>“What do you want this time Gabriel? Here to perform another ‘extraordinary rendition’?” Gabriel smiled, showing off all his pristine teeth, clasping his hands together and ignoring the disdain aimed at him.</p><p>“Actually, I like to think of it as more of an intervention.” A flower of unease began to slowly unfurl just below Aziraphale’s heart.</p><p>“We,” Gabriel gestured shortly to the other angels beside him, “are here to help you, Aziraphale. We’re worried about you.” Another petal unfurled on the metaphorical flower as confusion swirled through his rib cage.</p><p>“About me?” Gabriel gave the blond angel a sad smile as he leaned in, his tone that of a hurt parent talking to their quarrelsome child.</p><p>“Of course! You’re an angel, Aziraphale. One of us. And while you may indulge in the trappings of humanity more than is strictly proper for an angel, we still love you!”</p><p>“You bastards,” a voice rasped, causing the bound angel to start. Annoyance flashed across the archangel’s amethyst eyes as he let out a sigh and turned to face the still hissing demon. Aziraphale blinked his eyes as the wall of angels that he hadn’t realized was closing in on him broke. He had forgotten his friend was even there so complete had been their barrier. Aziraphale strained toward the occult entity as he continued to rage.</p><p>“You lot never loved Aziraphale! Ever! Don’t let them deceive you, Angel! They didn’t even give you a trial last time you were up here. No justice, no mercy, no ‘divine forgiveness’! Just cold, uncaring—”</p><p>“Enough Serpent!” Gabriel’s voice boomed, echoing throughout the empty room like rolling thunder. Aziraphale couldn’t suppress the dreadful shiver that echoed through his bones. It was rare that the archangel found reason to speak with the divine authority She had bestowed upon him.</p><p>Crowley bristled even more, if it was possible, his wings gleaming, sharp obsidian, his eyes two citrine points as he wrenched at his chains. Gabriel stopped just short of Crowley, his back straight, his eyes and voice snapping like thawing ice.</p><p>“You have not been brought here to give voice to your divisive propaganda!”</p><p>“Then why was he brought here, Gabriel?” The archangel stuttered to a halt, his arm raised midair, as if preparing to smite the fallen angel where he stood.</p><p>“It makes a small amount of sense, I suppose,” Aziraphale mused as Gabriel began advancing on him.</p><p>“You were, naturally, a bit put out about the whole Apocalypse and what-not, added on to which was our most recent encounter wherein we were immune to your proposed punishments, but it would seem to be more sensible to let the demon Crowley be released to the denizens of Hell for another go-‘round.” Gabriel gave a tight-lipped smile as he towered over the bound angel.</p><p>“Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Wielder of the Flaming Sword, it has come to our attention that certain…circumstances were not  given due consideration when your original punishment was determined. Crowley snorted disdainfully and Gabriel’s eyes began to harden again.</p><p>“What circumstances?” Aziraphale blurted, desperately hoping to keep the archangel’s focus on him. Gabriel stretched his face into a smile that managed to be knowing, false, and vicious all at the same time. Inwardly Aziraphale quailed as the slowly unfurling flower of unease burst into sudden bloom, sending whorls of panic throughout his corporation.</p><p>“Your status as a fallen angel.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>1</sup> <a id="foot1" name="foot1"></a>Crowley always complained that Aziraphale was more pompous after a visit at head office. Aziraphale was inclined to agree with him now.<a href="#foot1back"> Back</a><br/><sup>2</sup> <a id="foot2" name="foot2"></a>If Aziraphale took the time to contemplate it for a longer period of time, he would've noticed that the home-ness of Heaven had begun to fade 'round about the time he and Crowley began The Arrangement.<a href="#foot2back"> Back</a><br/><sup>3</sup> <a id="foot3" name="foot3"></a>Like fresh laundered clothing, but without the warmth and softness that a dryer imbued the smell with.<a href="#foot3back"> Back</a><br/><sup>4</sup> <a id="foot4" name="foot4"></a>Aziraphale was quite certain that, Crowley's protests aside, the two beings depicted were not wrestling and that Evil was not so much triumphing as momentarily topping.<a href="#foot4back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale’s brow furrowed in puzzlement.</p><p>“But I haven’t fallen.”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>“I don’t understand.”</p><p>“You didn’t fall, Aziraphale! Despite thwarting the Apocalypse, disobeying, rebelling really, against Her, not to mention consorting with one of the Fallen, you yourself have <em>not</em> fallen. What does that say to you?”</p><p>Aziraphale’s gaze faltered, shying away as he felt his ex-colleagues begin to close in on him again, their faces unpleasantly neutral. He struggled to marshal his thoughts into some sort of coherency when his sightline connected again with Crowley. The demon was still, his posture vibrating with poorly concealed wrath, but his eyes…they were glinting gold, bright and worried, unsure. Without his sunglasses to hide behind and with no one focusing on him, Crowley’s insecurities were beginning to leak through.</p><p>Molten steel pulsed from Aziraphale’s core and down his spine, cooling, hardening, strengthening his resolve. <em>How dare they.</em> The uneasy flower, which had become a flowering vine wending its way through his ribcage burst into immediate atomizing flame. Although still bound, Aziraphale was abruptly every inch the sword-wielding principality She had created him to be. <em>How dare they!</em>  His gaze like flint ready to spark to fire, Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Wielder of the Flaming Sword, Principality of the Lord God Almighty stared unflinchingly into the eyes of his enemy<a href="#foot5" id="foot5back" name="foot5back"><sup>5</sup></a> and spoke.</p><p>“It says to me that we were right. Crowley and I were right when we thwarted the Apocalypse because it wasn’t part of Her Ineffable Plan despite being part of the Great Plan. What does it say to you, Gabriel?”</p><p>The startlement in the other’s face was more satisfying than Aziraphale was willing to admit at that moment, but it didn’t last long. Gabriel leaned away, straightening his suit jacket.</p><p>“I have to admit, I can see why She would want you to stay,” he said, grudging admiration evident.</p><p>“You are fiercely loyal, misguided as that loyalty may be, and unflinchingly brave in the face of danger, despite your studied avoidance of conflict. And you have strong convictions, inconvenient though they are.” Aziraphale frowned, unnerved by the non-sequitur.</p><p>“It took us no small amount of time to figure out what had happened,” he continued circling Aziraphale and stopping just beyond his periphery, “but once we had, it was a simple matter to come up with a relatively satisfactory solution.” Aziraphale nearly jumped when Gabriel clapped his hands.</p><p>“Let’s get to it!” he could practically hear Gabriel’s big, gleeful smile. His eyes closed instinctively as he took a deep breath to quell the rising panic.<a href="#foot6" id="foot6back" name="foot6back"><sup>6</sup></a> There was no way they could know. Both of them had been careful, there was no way they could possibly…</p><p>The surge of angelic power brushed past him just before he heard the snap of fingers behind him. A hiss of pain followed by a surprised “What the fuck?!” startled his eyes open again as they sought out his friend.</p><p>The angelic conglomerate had parted like the Red Sea before him giving the blond angel an unimpeded view of the demon. Crowley stood still, but his head was tipped back, teeth and fangs bared threateningly at the ceiling above him from which a small metal object protruded, a sprinkler, if Aziraphale was remembering correctly. He and Crowley had been arguing over the need for them in the bookshop last time they had dinner.<a href="#foot7" id="foot7back" name="foot7back"><sup>7</sup></a></p><p>The tableau before him was broken by a drop of water leaking from the spout and hitting the red-head, who hissed in pain again. Dread, horror, and panic raced a relay through Aziraphale’s bloodstream as his eyes traced the path of the droplet down Crowley’s cheek, a smoking red trail of slowly welling blood and seared flesh left in its wake.</p><p>“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was small and quavering, but loud enough to cross the distance between them. Eyes that sparkled like pyrite as well as a matching red, smoking trail down the other side of Crowley’s face told him everything. His brain shut down and rebooted in the span of a second. Adrenaline and fully-formed terror ripped through him as another drop fell. Crowley managed to twist against his shackles enough to prevent it landing directly on his skin. It still cut an inexorable line through his clothing. Their eyes found each other.</p><p>“’Ziraphale.” He had no idea how Crowley had intended it to come out, but his name sang in his ears as something between a sob and a plea. He fought against his bindings, using every ounce of his angelic strength to break them. The chair groaned and began to warp, but the ropes themselves held. He doubled his efforts, concurrently wracking his brain for some idea, any idea. His wings manifested themselves suddenly, responding to his extreme agitation. They mirrored Crowley’s, arching as high as possible and puffing out uselessly, straining to shield Crowley and only managing to get in the way. Unfortunately, Aziraphale had no concentration to spare to tuck them away again. He had one goal: Save Crowley.</p><p>Sharp nails dug into the struggling angel’s feathers, twisting his wings till he cried out. Michael’s voice spoke lowly in his ear, her voice crystallized honey.</p><p>“You didn’t really think you were going to get away with your little deception did you, Aziraphale?” Her fingers flexed, digging in further, undoubtedly drawing blood. Aziraphale barely suppressed a pained gasp.</p><p>“It wasn’t hard in the end, to figure out that you and that demon had switched corporations. This time there will be no escaping judgement.” Michael withdrew her fingers and snapped once.</p><p>“No!” he cried as the intermittent drops of Holy Water became more of a trickle.</p><p>“Stop! Don’t do this, please!” Aziraphale unashamedly begged, tears flowing down his cheeks, his mouth pouring forth an unending litany of pleas, prayers, and supplications, anything to save Crowley.</p><p>The slow trickle of water continued, unabated. Crowley was managing to avoid most of the water as it plummeted in his direction, but the divine droplets were gradually tearing through the layers of demonically manifested clothing piece by piece before being absorbed by the fabric or Crowley’s skin. Backsplash from the falling liquid had already littered his face and hands with raw, red dots and splotches that smoked lightly. Crowley seemed to be blurring a bit here and there though that could have just been the result of the tears that were constantly spilling from Aziraphale’s eyes. Every grimace, every hiss of pain struck the angel like a lance,<a href="#foot8" id="foot8back" name="foot8back"><sup>8</sup></a> tearing a bit more of his heart out until all the ensnared angel could do was whimper a steady string of sobs and moans interspersed with the odd entreaty for Her mercy.</p><p>A hand fell heavily on Aziraphale’s shoulder, squeezing it. He couldn’t conjure even the illusion of attention to it. His entire being had no focus except the one entity he couldn’t reach.</p><p>“I’m sorry that it had to be this way, Aziraphale,” Gabriel sighed heavily, “but you left us no other option.”</p><p>The outrage Aziraphale wanted to feel over his former boss’s words was swallowed up by the betrayal twisting through him. It was stupid, he knew to still feel this way. Crowley had told him about his lack of a trial last time, about Gabriel’s final words to who he thought was Aziraphale, the ‘nothing-personal-just-business’ façade of it all. He hadn’t doubted his friend’s tale, had felt the papercut sting of disappointed expectations and flagging ethical standards, but deep in the recesses of his mind, in a place he had never let Crowley get a glimpse of (but suspected he knew about all the same) he still felt he deserved whatever punishment the archangels decided on, trial or no.</p><p>He knew he wasn’t the kind of angel Gabriel and the others wanted him to be; too soft, too frivolous, too hopeful, too fretful. Stupid, soft, naïve Aziraphale, the angel who spent so long on Earth he forgot the core tenant of Heaven: ‘Fide ad extremum’, ‘Loyalty to the end’.<a href="#foot9" id="foot9back" name="foot9back"><sup>9</sup></a> Loyalty to Heaven, loyalty to the Great Plan, loyalty to one’s own (unfallen) kin, and, most importantly, blind, unshakeable, immovable, unquestioning loyalty (not faith, not trust, not love) to Her. And they were right.</p><p>He had betrayed every trust ever given to him from the Flaming Sword to thwarting the enemy,<a href="#foot10" id="foot10back" name="foot10back"><sup>10</sup></a> to watching over the Antichrist and playing his role in Armageddon and the ensuing final battle. On this basis alone he should have seen this coming, should have known that Heaven would never be satisfied. But he had allowed himself to believe that the two of them would be safe now, their own side and all that. He had let his guard down for the first time in…forever, and in doing so had compromised the one thing, the one being he had tried to keep safe for so long. Shame and bitterness clawed at his throat and his chest heaved as his words tumbled forth in a whimpered entreaty.</p><p>“Please, please, stop…please. He doesn’t deserve this.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>5</sup> <a id="foot5" name="foot5"></a>"When did Gabriel become the enemy?" a small voice in the back of his head asked.</p><p>"The moment he dared lay a finger on Crowley," a much darker voice answered. HOW DARE THEY!</p><p><a href="#foot5back"> Back</a><br/><sup>6</sup> <a id="foot6" name="foot6"></a>Turns out that even is he didn't necessarily need to breathe, deep breathing exercises were an effective way of dealing with his anxiety.<a href="#foot6back"> Back</a><br/><sup>7</sup> <a id="foot7" name="foot7"></a>He had been against and Crowley for. Books and water do NOT mix well. Though he did have to admit that Crowley's counterargument regarding books and fire was equally valid.<a href="#foot7back"> Back</a><br/><sup>8</sup> <a id="foot8" name="foot8"></a>And having jousted on several occasions during Arthur's time, he could say with utter confidence what being struck by a lance felt like.<a href="#foot8back"> Back</a><br/><sup>9</sup> <a id="foot9" name="foot9"></a>He never had understood Heaven's obsession with Latin. It was a beautiful language to be sure, but there were other prettier languages to chant Mass in.<a href="#foot9back"> Back</a><br/><sup>10</sup> <a id="foot10" name="foot10"></a>Though really there wouldn't have been much thwarting to be done, even if he had been so inclined, as Crowley tended to accidentally thwart his own wiles more often than not, poor dear.<a href="#foot10back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the last of what I have pre-written, so from here on it the updates will be largely dependant on how much time I can carve out to write, but I do plan on finishing. I have the whole plot mapped out...I just have to write it. If anyone has other tag suggestions, please please let me know. Same goes for any grammar or spelling mishaps!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The collective gasp that rippled outward from behind was not lost on him, but the look on his friend’s face was more arresting.</p><p>“Angel…,” he breathed, his face still deciding what emotion to settle on, passing by horrified admiration, shock, and amazement, to land on something that looked an awful lot like love to Aziraphale. Gabriel’s broad body blocked his view of Crowley. He crouched in front of the captive, his countenance equal parts troubled and resolute.</p><p>“That <em>thing</em> over there, is a demon, one of the Fallen. What he deserves is eternal, torturous damnation in the Lake of Fire—”</p><p>“All he ever did was ask questions,” Aziraphale murmured, his gaze having wandered over Gabriel’s shoulder and back to Crowley, who had a new laceration forming on his neck.</p><p>“Why did he have to fall just for asking questions?” Gabriel stood up, straightening his suit jacket.</p><p>“Is that what he told you, Aziraphale? That he only ‘asked questions’?”</p><p>“Yes.” Gabriel laughed, a nasty, scornful thing.</p><p>“And you actually believed him!?” Aziraphale locked eyes with Crowley.</p><p>“Yes, always.” The serpent’s golden gaze burned him with its intensity, like a refiner’s fire burning away the dross, leaving nothing except elemental truth. There was so much Aziraphale had never said to his dearest friend, had never told him, had never apologized for. And now there was no more time, and the angel didn’t know how to say it all, to express the regret he had for being so slow, to tell Crowley that he meant more to him than any Bible or book of prophecy he owned, to assure him that he wasn’t alone in what he felt, that he may not have always loved his opposite, certainly not for as long as he suspected Crowley had loved him, but he did now, had for a couple of centuries at least, he had just been so afraid, so worried, too cautious and had never told him anything, and now…now all he could do was ask the questions he had always harbored and never voiced and hope that the demon understood the things left unspoken: <em>I didn’t understand it either, your fall, how someone so good could possibly have been found wanting merely for asking questions, I always believed you told me the truth, that you never lied to me, even when I lied to you, and I love you, even when I turned you away, when I denied us, our side.</em></p><p>The backhanded slap from Gabriel was unexpected. Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he gasped in surprise and pain. The archangel’s eyes were purple fire, like burning potassium chloride.</p><p>“Wake up, Sunshine!” he bellowed. “He lied to you, he’s a demon, doesn’t know how to do anything else!” Aziraphale shook his head, adamant.</p><p>“Not to me.”</p><p>“Especially to you! What? You thought he followed you around all these years out of fondness? That he actually liked you?” Aziraphale’s heart stuttered as Gabriel dragged out all the fears he had spent millennia dispelling. He knew Crowley liked him, at least marginally, and certainly in spite of every doubt Aziraphale had ever had about him and every insult he had thrown at him. He hung his head in shame. He had never deserved the friendship Crowley constantly extended, the loyalty and dogged persistence. Gabriel’s next words snapped Aziraphale to attention again.</p><p>“Or maybe you thought he loved you. You’re naively optimistic and blindly oblivious enough to believe that sort of thing possible, even from one from whom the ability to love was taken. Perhaps especially in that case. Always seeing the best in the worst.”</p><p>“What’s your point, Gabriel?” He was growing tired of the orating, the surges of fear and panic not enough to keep him from feeling impatience with the archangel. Gabriel folded his hands together, as if to start a prayer, and spoke slowly.</p><p>“My point, Aziraphale, is that he played you.” Despite himself, Aziraphale felt his heart plummet as Gabriel leaned in.</p><p>“He softened you up, filled your head with lies, lulled you into a false sense of benevolence toward him just so that he could pull the rug out from under your feet and make you fall.”</p><p>And there it was, the final fear, the thought Aziraphale constantly shoved down and tried so hard to break away from. It was all that held him back many times, that tiny thought that lurked in the shadows of his mind, hidden, just waiting for the moment Crowley did something too kind, offered Aziraphale too much, be it food, books, friendship…or love. And at those moments the thought would crawl out of the darkness and leave the angel a mess, sometimes for years, as he struggled to subdue the persistent thought with the evidence of everything Crowley had offered before, done before, had always done when around Aziraphale. The years, sometimes decades, between meetings was often due to this, especially in the earliest days of their acquaintance. It was his greatest fear and his greatest shame given a louder voice and more power than it had had since the 1860s.</p><p>Bitter tears ran down Aziraphale’s cheeks. Gabriel, assuming he had made his point, pressed on.</p><p>“Do not despair angel.”</p><p>Aziraphale shuddered to hear his favorite endearment from Gabriel’s mouth with sticky falsity as the archangel’s hand descended on his bowed head.</p><p>“Lift up your head, the Lord has not forgotten you. She knew your heart and by Her grace you have not fallen. Now for the final sentencing.” Gabriel stepped to the side, moving his hand to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder and gesturing Uriel forward. Her voice rang out clear.</p><p>“Demon Crowley, for the crime of tempting an angel of the Lord to fall, you have been sentenced to utter obliviation by Holy Water. Have you any last words, Deciever?” The phrasing, so reminiscent of his visit to Hell as Crowley, almost made Aziraphale laugh, but it lodged in his throat as he looked to Crowley.</p><p> Crowley was on his knees now, the pain of multiple Holy Water lacerations too much for him to keep on his feet. His wings were streaked with smoking reddish-black lines and feathers had been shorn off in places, some right in half, others having holes through them, leaving his wings ragged and broken looking, their sheen fading as it dripped iridescence into an ever expanding puddle on the otherwise pristine floor. Gasping Crowley looked imploringly at his friend, his eyes tear laden and stricken. It reminded Aziraphale of the bandstand where he had denied their friendship, tried to dismantle The Arrangement. Crowley had given him a similar look then. This one hurt more.</p><p>“Aziraphale, please,” he pleaded softly, his voice partially dissolving into a pained moan, “you must know I never –would never, couldn’t Angel, --never in all our time--,”</p><p>“I know, Dearest” Aziraphale interrupted. “I know.”</p><p>“Proceed,” Gabriel intoned before Aziraphale could say anything more. The brush from the angelic miracle was heavier this time, and Aziraphale didn’t know who snapped. All he could clearly comprehend was the way his apathetic despair solidified into desperation as judgement became reality. He squirmed and twisted struggling for more leverage, just something! His eyes never left the demon.</p><p>Crowley was still kneeling, but had folded his wings around himself again so they hid his face from view. The sprinkler shuddered slightly as the miracle changed the water pressure and a steady stream of water began to fall.</p><p>It wasn’t until the liquid made contact that Aziraphale stopped fighting paralyzed by the boiling sizzle that reached his ears just before he watched the Holy Water slice through Crowley’s wings.</p><p>Aziraphale had never actually seen a demon sacrificed to Holy Water. Group training initiatives had inevitably included listening to tales from others who had done so, but the narrations were more concentrated on the “glorious victory of our Lord” and the bravery and resolve of the angel involved rather than with details of the way in which the Holy Water destroyed its victims.</p><p>Crowley’s scream of pain, of agony cut sharply into his heart,<a href="#foot11" id="foot11back" name="foot11back"><sup>11</sup></a> and sliced down. The beautiful ebony wings sloughed off like a peeling sunburn, liquefying into smoking black wax, revealing a bowed head of fiery red that quickly dissolved under the stream like a crayon in a storm of acid rain, melting and immediately turning to smoke. Screams still rang in Aziraphale’s ears and he realized they were his. He tried to stop, but he couldn’t move his hands to cover his mouth. More quickly than he expected, it was over. The melting, smoking, crying creature that had been his everything was gone, leaving nothing but a puddle of blackened Holy Water.</p><p>Aziraphale had stopped screaming, though he couldn’t say when his brain had made the decision to do so. Someone released his wrists and he fell forward on his hands and knees. He crawled to the puddle that was all that was left of Crowley, his hand hovering over it, unwilling to break the surface tension.</p><p>Something in him broke then, snapping and shattering like panes of glass as sobs clawed their way out of him in long keening wails. He heard nothing over the noise of his sorrow, but he felt the shards, the pieces of whatever was broken stabbing him in the stomach, in the sides, anywhere and everywhere. The angel cried harder. Maybe if he could just cry hard enough he could make it stop hurting, maybe it would be enough to numb him and keep him from remembering. <em>Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me?</em><a href="#foot12" id="foot12back" name="foot12back"><sup>12</sup></a></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>11</sup> <a id="foot11" name="foot11"></a>He wondered if this hurt worse than when Crowley fell.<a href="#foot11back"> Back</a></p><p><sup>12</sup> <a id="foot12" name="foot12"></a>Much Ado About Nothing, Act 4, Scene 1, spoken by Leonato.<a href="#foot12back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, that turned out angstier than I anticipated...I think only one more chapter of super angst and then it should all be uphill from there (kinda...). Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He didn’t know how long he knelt there inches from the instrument of his friend’s death, half wishing it was capable of taking his life as well. He had stopped sobbing, though tears still flowed freely down his cheeks and his wings had tucked themselves away again. Footsteps echoed behind him. He didn’t look up.</p><p>“Just kill me already,” he said, flatly. Gabriel snorted behind him.</p><p>“It’s not that simple, Aziraphale. As I said, this was an intervention.”</p><p>“Meaning what?”</p><p>“Meaning, now that you are no longer under the influence of that…<em>creature</em>, you can start earning our trust again and return to Heaven!” Aziraphale did look up at that, his expression a mixture of confusion, astonishment, and skepticism.</p><p>“I beg your pardon?”</p><p>“You didn’t think we would go to all this trouble and then just kill you, did you?” Aziraphale decided to treat the statement like the rhetorical question it was and not answer. Gabriel manhandled him into a standing position, smiling largely, as if he hadn’t just razed Aziraphale’s world to nothing. He clapped the stricken angel on the shoulders.</p><p>“Look, Aziraphale, I know this must all seem a bit cruel and needlessly vicious,<a href="#foot13" id="foot13back" name="foot13back"><sup>13</sup></a> but you had to be able to see that demon for the snake he always was and have his influence over you completely decimated.” Aziraphale’s chest tightened and tears spilled over at that, leaving Gabriel to once again completely misinterpret the cause of the angel’s grief. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, the archangel began leading him toward the escalators, offering a handkerchief that he took, but decidedly did NOT use.</p><p>“There’s no need for sorrow or guilt, Aziraphale. Anyone could have been taken in by that serpent. Original tempter, right?” Aziraphale’s chest pulled tighter as he struggled to contain the sobs that wanted to burst forth. A headache began forming between his eyes as Gabriel droned on.</p><p>“And being on earth for so long, away from your home and family, you were easy pickings for a practiced deceiver like him. No one here condemns you for this bit of weakness. After all, as I explained earlier, you are still an angel. Not much of one, but we’ll change all of that soon enough.”</p><p>Aziraphale began to wonder if this was how survivors of exorcisms felt after everything. Emptied out and hollow, like a dead tree, but still somehow breathing, experiencing the world with senses that didn’t seem to work quite the same as before, surrounded on all sides by people who said they wanted the best for you but whose offerings were rather paltry and confining compared to what one had before. The two angels reached the escalators and with a concerted effort Aziraphale pushed his musings and memories aside.</p><p>“So, if you’re not going to kill me, what, precisely, happens now?”</p><p>“Well, as you know, angelic disciplinary measures are not carried out on site, per se<a href="#foot14" id="foot14back" name="foot14back"><sup>14</sup></a>, and what with your current state of mind and your need for a period of reflection and meditation, we thought that sending you back to earth for the duration would be the best course to pursue.”</p><p>“What disciplinary measures?” Gabriel widened his eyes comically and smiled in a sleazily self-deprecating manner, like a car salesman who had “accidentally forgotten” to mention the price of the vehicle he has just spent the last 15 minutes touting.</p><p>“Oh, that’s nothing, really. It’s just that, in spite of everything we discovered in the interim, you did still avert the prophesied Armageddon and there are consequences to be dealt out for that. Don’t look so suspicious! Due consideration was given to your unusual situation and the judgment handed down is nothing so much as a slap on the wrist. You just have a three-a-day miracle restriction for the next year. And since you won’t be on active duty during that time, it won’t be all that much of an inconvenience. Worst comes to worst you give up on that eating business and actually do something about that gut, eh?” Gabriel shouted a laugh, playfully punching Aziraphale’s stomach for emphasis. Aziraphale closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, struggling to keep his fury at bay.</p><p>“So I’m to return to earth?”</p><p>“Yes. But honestly, what’s a year when compared with the rest of eternity? Serve out your sentence, and then report back here for your new orders. Simple!” Aziraphale nodded his head, stepping out of Gabriel’s reach and edging closer to the escalators. He needed to get out of here. He had just turned around when Gabriel called out again.</p><p>“Aziraphale!” The angel turned, trying to relax his automatically tensing shoulders.</p><p>“Let not your heart be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.”<a href="#foot15" id="foot15back" name="foot15back"><sup>15</sup></a> Turning around quickly, Aziraphale strode down the escalator as quickly as possible and out the door.</p><p>Outside of head office Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and then another. His mind felt foggy and dizzy. After a minute (which could very well have been more) he opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings. People passed around him, cars and buses motoring to where ever it was they were bound. London was as busy and oblivious as normal, everyone so wrapped up in their own troubles and concerns that they couldn’t see….NO! Aziraphale shook his head, figuratively and literally. He was not going to do this here. He needed to get back to the shop. If he could just make it there everything would be fine. Dusting off his jacket and straightening his waistcoat, he set off. He momentarily considered miracling himself home, but decided he could use the walk as a much-needed distraction. He set himself the challenge of trying to identify every noise, smell, and even taste he came across. It was an effective mental occupation until he was roughly four blocks from the shop.</p><p>There were many places in London that Aziraphale had never visited, many cafes, restaurants, and coffee shops that had yet to see his patronage, but for a four-block radius around the bookshop there was virtually no place that had <em>not</em> been investigated, eaten at, or browsed through very thoroughly. And most of the time he had done so with Crowley. Even thinking his name was enough to set Aziraphale’s mind churning.</p><p>Pushing back with greater mental force he tried to focus on what he heard. His ears picked out Mrs. Laurens singing, quite horribly, along to her music device (which had a total of maybe seven songs on it) as she wiped down some tables at the little deli Crowley had taken him to years ago. He could always tell when Crowley was contemplating suggesting lunch from there as he would be humming one of Mrs. Laurens’ songs under his breath for at least an hour beforehand.</p><p>He could hear Jeanie at the counter of the doughnut shop half a block down. Her voice was loud as anything and her laugh even louder, but always joyful. She had given Crowley quite a fright the first (and only) time he had gone there with Aziraphale. He had been startled by her bark of laughter over some wry comment he had made and had jumped back, bumping into Aziraphale and clutching at his sleeve. Crowley refused to go back after that, but whenever Aziraphale ordered a bacon maple doughnut<a href="#foot16" id="foot16back" name="foot16back"><sup>16</sup></a>, she would inevitably ask how “tall, dark, and jumpy” was doing. It had always warmed him to be asked that.</p><p> The Carlton’s cats were fighting with each other again. They fought nearly as much as Georgia and Mary themselves. Well, not lately perhaps. Last time they had been to the shop they had seemed…happier, more content and their love had felt stronger, more stable than before. He had said as much to Crowley who had expressed doubt, based on the fighting cats, claiming you could tell a lot about a couple by meeting their pets. That had led to a merry debate over the intelligence of pets. Crowley had insisted that most pets were far smarter than humans tended to suppose. Aziraphale had tried to counter him, but had failed magnificently. Crowley had bought him a lemon tart from his favorite local pastry shop as compensation.</p><p>Feeling tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, Aziraphale tried desperately to focus on something else. Maybe smells would be a better distraction than sounds. He was nearly there, only a block between him and the shop when he was stopped dead by the most delicious aroma. <em>Crepes!</em> And not just any crepes, but crepes from the little place that had opened just down the way from him. He and Crowley had stopped there after they finished at the Ritz last week. It had been the café’s grand opening that day and it felt just a little like fate that they should pass it by on the way back to the shop. Crowley had pulled the Bentley into a wild U-Turn, which had scared Aziraphale half to discorporation. It wasn’t until the vehicle jerked to an abrupt halt that Aziraphale had caught the same smell that Crowley had clearly caught quicker.<a href="#foot17" id="foot17back" name="foot17back"><sup>17</sup></a> It was crepes; perfectly cooked, golden, crepes. Crowley had peered at Aziraphale over the top of his shades, eyes sparkling with madcap delight.</p><p>“Shall we, Angel?” Aziraphale hadn’t even bothered to suppress his smile for the first time in almost six millenia, and it had been…exhilarating. Crowley had handed him out of the car like the gentleman he was only for Aziraphale, dropping a lingering kiss to his hand before threading the angel’s arm through his. The blush that had heated Aziraphale’s cheeks only deepened as the hostess seated them in a quiet corner. Crowley’s hand had rested atop his as he looked over the menu.</p><p>The crepes had been delicious; the best he had tasted since that time with Crowley in France. They were as golden and soft as their scent had promised, filled with ricotta cheese and topped with raspberries. He hadn’t tried everything, just the one dish. He knew that if the crepes were even half as well made as the ones from France that he would be back again. And oh! Were they ever! He had even successfully tempted Crowley to a taste.</p><p>They hadn’t stayed long as Aziraphale was eager to see the bookshop again. Crowley had assured him that everything was in order, but he needed to see for himself. He had also been intrigued by Crowley’s mention of additions to his collection. They’d walked to the shop, arm in arm, Aziraphale resting his hand on Crowley’s and leaning into him quite shamelessly. Crowley hadn’t seemed to mind though. It had just felt so good, so…freeing, to be able to be as casually affectionate as he had always longed to be around the demon. The Bentley was waiting for them when they reached the bookshop and Aziraphale had smiled, wondering, not for the first time, how sentient the Bentley was after all this time.</p><p>They had dropped hands at the door, Aziraphale having the unusual urge to fiddle with his keys as they both stood there. He had invited Crowley to come in, but he’d declined, admitting that he needed to go back to his flat, check on the plants, and then take a nap, a long one. Aziraphale hadn’t been able to hide his disappointment.</p><p>“How long of a nap do you think you’ll need?” Crowley had smirked knowingly, taking Aziraphale’s hands and brushing kisses to the knuckles.</p><p>“Missing me already, Angel?” He’d blushed, only a little embarrassed at being so obvious.</p><p>“Tell you what, I’ll set an alarm for myself for two weeks from now and we’ll go back to that crepe place for dinner and see where we end up, yeah?” He’d nodded, still red from the blush and warm with Crowley’s proximity, his heart undoubtedly racing, chest expanding and breath shortening, and then…</p><p>“Sir?”</p><p>…and then…</p><p>“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”</p><p>Aziraphale came back to himself with a ragged breath. Someone was standing in front of him forming words in his direction that didn’t quite register.</p><p>“Sir? Are you alright? Should I call emergency services? Sir?” His memory fogged brain shifted back to the present. He was standing on the sidewalk, in Soho, across the street from his shop and some human had a hand at his elbow asking if he was okay. He turned his gaze to theirs.</p><p>“Oh, I am sorry,” he said, voice a bit rough. His cheeks were feeling a bit sticky. <em>Tears tracks</em>, his fingers identified as he idly wiped at the liquid that was apparently streaming down his face again. He tried to smile reassuringly at the woman in front of him.</p><p>“I’m afraid I got rather lost in thought there. But nothing to worry about.” Gently removing her hand, he began to cross the street. His thoughts were a jumbled mass of memories and panic.</p><p>
  <em>Fingers, long, tender, running down his cheek in a gentle caress and then (Get in the shop, get in the shop, not out here, please God, not out here) …  </em>
</p><p>“Are you sure you’re alright? Can I help you get somewhere?”</p><p>
  <em>Warm breath on his face. Amber eyes glinting with sunlight and warmth. Hair like fire coming closer, heart beating faster, and then (Hurry up! Cross the road! Get inside before…) …</em>
</p><p>“No need. I’m fine, absolutely tickety-boo.” He scrambled to get his keys out, fumbling them in the lock at least twice. <em>Eyes fluttering shut. Fingers ghosting over his face, his lips, a smile he couldn’t see but knew was there anyway and then (Open, open, open! Please, please please!) …</em></p><p>The door slammed shut behind him and he pressed his back up against it. A single miracle to hide the shop completely from human view and...<em>a kiss, soft, gentle, lovely… an almost insignificant press of lips, but oh! the love. So much love in that single point of contact. Blue meeting gold in wonderment. Crowley pulling back slowly, running a hand through his hair.</em></p><p>
  <em>“See you in two weeks angel.”</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale’s legs gave out and he slid to the floor. His tears went unchecked now as he put his head in his hands, pain and anger and grief and sorrow and rage leaking out with every breath, every sob. Wings manifesting around him, the angel of the Lord wept.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>13</sup> <a id="foot13" name="foot13"></a>That was an understatement.<a href="#foot13back"> Back</a><br/><sup>14</sup> <a id="foot13" name="foot13"></a>Aziraphale did not know this at all.<a href="#foot14back"> Back</a><br/><sup>15</sup> <a id="foot15" name="foot15"></a>John 14:1<a href="#foot15back"> Back</a><br/><sup>16</sup> <a id="foot16" name="foot16"></a>Crowley had always claimed that the world's obsession with putting bacon on anything and everything had been his idea and that maple doughnuts were the only good thing to come out of it. Aziraphale begged to differ.<a href="#foot16back"> Back</a><br/><sup>17</sup> <a id="foot" name="foot"></a>Perks of snake biology he supposed.<a href="#foot17back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I did it! I finished another part! This is just about the longest story I've ever written. As always, suggestions, comments, and constructive criticisms are welcome. Enjoy!<br/>I just edited this a bit and added a small thing near the end.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            It was all sand, as far as the eye could see and beyond. Golden, scorching (probably), coarse and gritty sand under a very bright, blue sky. Crowley shuddered from his place on the wall, turning away from the monotonous view. Transitioning to his serpent form, he slid down the wall and into the garden below.</p><p>            Trees of every type imaginable stretched into the sky, their limbs reaching up, and occasionally out, but never beyond the thick walls that kept them neatly contained, like those little bio-dome bottles that were their own little self-sustaining ecosystems.</p><p>            He slunk past flowering plants, most of them extinct everywhere except here. He flicked his tongue out to taste the air around him. Myriad odors hung there, intangible to most, floral scents, long forgotten, alongside the enticing smell of ripening fruit and dew damp soil. It had been a while since he had last seen Eden, and the memory he had of cloying pleasantness was surprisingly accurate. Everything was just so crowded, holding an unmistakable air of someone trying too hard. Half of the plants looked ready to mutiny.</p><p>            Coiling himself around the base of a truly pathetic set of flowering vines, Crowley hissed soft suggestions of spreading out and reaching higher; told the plant tales of warm sunlight to bask in and glittering, pristine walls for it to slowly tear apart and conquer. <em>Grow better, </em>he admonished as he slid away. The vines shivered.</p><p>            <em>Now, time to find Aziraphale,</em> he thought, making his way to the eastern side of Eden. The angel was usually somewhereabouts. However, as he continued through the lush flora, he became a bit concerned. Normally, he’d have bumped into Aziraphale by now. As a matter of fact, he should have bumped into the eastern wall by now. As if summoned by his thoughts, Crowley slithered snoot first into unyielding stone. Hissing displeasure and thankful snakes couldn’t blush with embarrassment he looked around, tongue flicking wildly. All he could catch was a whiff of something holy, but not with the warmth that defined Aziraphale. <em>What the fuck was going on here?</em></p><p>            Crawling up the eastern wall he continued flicking his tongue in and out, in and out. The scent was getting stronger, thicker. It coated his mouth like cream, thick and viscous and vaguely nauseating. The closer he got to the top, the heavier the scent was. Crowley transformed back to his human shape as soon as he reached the top of the wall, but the scent still filled his nostrils and his throat. He felt like he was choking on silk.</p><p>            “Hello, Crowley.” Crowley jumped almost a foot in the air, his heart juttering unsteadily. He turned to face the woman behind him.</p><p>            “What, in the name of everything unholy, are <em>you</em> doing here?!”</p><p>            “I was wondering how long it was going to take you to get here,” She continued, unperturbed.</p><p>“Did you enjoy inciting My plants to rebellion?” Crowley clenched his jaw. This is NOT how he had hoped to spend this dream.</p><p>            “What. Do. You. Want?”</p><p>            “I want many things, Crowley: world peace, a bouquet of forget-me-nots from Germany, and for all My children to stop trying to kill one another. Oh! and some peach gelato! I’ve heard it’s actually quite good. So, when you ask Me what I want, you might try being a bit more specific.”</p><p><em>            Bastard</em>, Crowley thought, making a mental note to tell Aziraphale that the apple hadn’t fallen as far from the tree as the archangels were trying to convince him it had. God was just as petty as his angel. Gritting his teeth, Crowley rephrased his question.</p><p>            “What do You want here in my—”</p><p>            “Fantasy?”</p><p>            “Dreamscape.” She smiled indulgently and began strolling along the wall. Shoving his hand into his tiny pockets, Crowley reluctantly followed. Past experience told him She would tell him Her purpose when She was ready and not a moment before. It was one of many things that drove him crazy and made him happy he wasn’t living up there anymore. Reining in his impatience and resigning himself to another disappointing dream he walked alongside Her, fuming silently. Her answering smirk was almost audible and Crowley scowled harder. She stopped when they reached the southeastern corner, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out.</p><p>            “Lovely, isn’t it?” She looked out at the desert, Her eyes roving greedily over it, devouring the red shadows that stretched across it in the now sinking sunlight.</p><p>            “Sure, if you like the sort of abrasive shit that gets in your robes and is still there five thousand years later making you itch. Like nature’s own form of glitter.” He shivered theatrically and She laughed. Crowley frowned, glancing at Her sideways.</p><p>            “Are You going to tell me why yYu’ve decided to invade my dream, or should I just wake up and save myself the trouble?”</p><p>            “I’ve missed your wit, child.”</p><p>            “Should’ve thought of that before You cast me out.” She tipped her head to the side, curious.</p><p>            “Could you really have been satisfied remaining in Heaven as _______?”</p><p>            “Guess we’ll never know,” he said quietly, shivering at his former name. The two immortals continued to watch the shadows cast by the sunset, a wind picking up behind them.</p><p>            “It really is rather peaceful here. I can see why you dream of Eden.”</p><p>            “Any peace I find here has rather less to do with Your “magnificent” garden than it does other things. You’re a shit gardener.”</p><p>            “Then why do you dream of Eden?” He faced Her then. Her eyes smiled softly, glinting as if She already knew the answer to Her own question (She probably did). Crowley’s mouth twisted into a grimace.</p><p>            “Pleasant memories,” he answered shortly.</p><p>            “Of your first successful temptation?”</p><p>            “What are You looking for?” he burst, more than a little irked. “You already know the answer to every one of these questions, I know You do. So why do You need me to answer them myself?”</p><p>            “Because, I need to know that you are up to the task I have for you.”</p><p>            “Beg Your pardon?”</p><p>            “I have a task for you, Crowley, but certain…conditions need to be met in order for you to succeed.”</p><p>            “Conditions that include the divulging of my personal feelings on matters long past?”</p><p>            “Conditions that include great resolve, strength of heart, and persistence of feeling despite grievous hardships.”</p><p>            “Faith, hope, and love. Really?” he scoffed.</p><p>“What? Am I supposed to be some sort of knight in tarnished armor?”</p><p>            “A knight in shining armor is a knight who has never seen battle, has never been tested.” Crowley’s gaze sharpened, studying what he saw in Her face. She was serious, despite Her continual evasion of straight forward answers. She was also troubled, and a bit…afraid.</p><p>            “I dream of Eden because it was where I first met Aziraphale.”</p><p>            “And that was a good thing? An angel meeting a demon?” Crowley snorted.</p><p>            “The <em>only</em> good thing to come out of that whole debacle if You ask me.”</p><p>            “You don’t count humanity’s survival among the good things of that day? After all, you and Aziraphale halted the entire Apocalypse for the sake of their continued survival, did you not?” Crowley gave Her a shrewd glance. She remained steadfast, Her countenance no longer betraying anything except gentle inquiry.</p><p>            “Is that so? Could’ve fooled me.” He took a deep breath, berating himself for a fool even as he spoke.</p><p>            “I wouldn’t have tried so hard if it weren’t for him. I’m pretty sure he’s three-quarters of my motivation any given day.”</p><p>            “I know.” Her smile seemed melancholy as the shadows lengthened across her face. She looked tired.</p><p>            “So, what now?” The smile morphed into a Cheshire grin that dissipated slowly into the deepening darkness.</p><p>            “Now you wake up.” Scorching heat enveloped his left arm. He tried to twist away, but lost his balance, falling off the wall and down, down, down, to the sand below.</p><p>            Crowley opened his eyes, staring unseeingly at his bedroom ceiling for a solid two minutes before finding his voice.</p><p>            “What the fuck?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I was a bit nervous about this part as it came together only within the past couple hours and I haven't spent a day or two agonizing over it before posting like I usually do. Did it hold its own?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was not quite what I expected when I sat down to write this chapter. I am satisfied with it though. Reader beware, this one will hurt again...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Night had long fallen when Aziraphale dragged himself back to the present. His wings parted and he stared into the darkness of his shop for an indeterminate amount of time before heaving a sigh. With a thought his wings tucked themselves away (though he could still feel them wrapping around him from the alternate plane) and he stood up, moving through the black interior of the shop, instinct carrying him to the back room. He stopped at the threshold, eyes drifting over the couch, the table, his desk. Feeling his heart speed up he headed upstairs instead. It was better up there, less memories.</p>
<p>Dust pillowed out around him as he sat on the, until now, unused bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he had tried sleeping. Maybe somewhere around 2000…BC. Crowley was always going on and on about the joys of a good nap. It had always been such a waste of time for Aziraphale. Why sleep when you could be reading? Or, when it was still in mode, dancing?</p>
<p>A quick miracle cleared the dust and cobwebs from the room, leaving an ornate, if out-of-date<a href="#foot18" id="foot18back" name="foot18back"><sup>18</sup></a>, full-sized bed. It was actually fairly comfortable, he noted, pleased. Laying back, he closed his eyes, letting the fluffy bedclothes envelope him. Perhaps he would try sleeping just this once…</p>
<p>
  <em>Aziraphale…Angel?</em>
</p>
<p>Aziraphale sprang upright, his eyes wide, heart pounding, wings fluttering invisibly, but agitatedly around him, trying to pull themselves into reality, reaching…reaching…for nothing. There was nothing there. No thin, pink, lips smiling sharply at him, no playfully glinting eyes hidden behind hard plastic, or smooth persuasive tones inviting him to bend the rules just a little. Nothing. Just more blackness sliding and settling against his chest like tar.</p>
<p>Tears were pricking at his eyes again and he swiped angrily at them cursing such a wretched system for expressing strong emotion as he tried to regulate his heart beat and bring it back down to something resembling human normality. Deep breath in, hold it, let it out. In again, hold it, then out. His hands clutched at the mattress, nails digging into the sheets. It took a concerted effort for them to let go and relax. Another deep breath in…hold…and out.</p>
<p>
  <em>Well, that’s a no to sleeping. Time for something different.</em>
</p>
<p>Looking around the bedroom, he could see little in the way of décor. Aside from the bed, the only other items in the room were a bedside table that matched the bed and on top of it a lamp that probably hadn’t worked since the 1900s, and perhaps not even then. One decisive snap later the bedroom had three inset bookcases that complemented the bed and side table quite nicely and a cozy rug to cover the wood floor. The lamp remained unchanged, for the moment.</p>
<p>Satisfied that all seemed to be in order he snapped again to move some of his books onto the shelves. He took an anticipatory step forward only to stop in befuddlement. The shelves were still empty. He snapped a second time. Still nothing. Closing his eyes, Aziraphale concentrated as he pulled down and snapped for a third time. He knew it hadn’t worked before he opened his eyes. As he was contemplating his predicament, a note appeared in his hands. The shining script read:</p>
<p> Principality Aziraphale,</p>
<p>            Please note that you are currently on a three-a-day miracle restriction</p>
<p>            as per the instructions of your direct superior.</p>
<p>                        -Ezekiel, Miracle Accounts Department</p>
<p>The missive burst into flame as Aziraphale rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. He was going to have to test the limits of that particular directive, but not right now.</p>
<p>He trudged down the stairs, setting the kettle to boil as he browsed through his collection. It didn’t take him particularly long to find the books he was looking for as he had a very specific list in mind. Really, finding the books was the easy part. The harder part was  walking up and down the winding staircase to get the books to their new shelves. The two cups of lavender tea helped. As the night shadows faded to early dawn in Soho, he finished. He briefly considered miracling something just to see if the limit had reset yet, but decided it could wait until later.</p>
<p>Making a third cup of tea, he headed upstairs for the final time, setting his tea on the bedside table and settling himself against the headboard. He opened a book of poems that had caught his fancy, but quickly felt his eyes grow unbearably heavy. He wanted to fight the sensation, to keep himself from being dragged into an activity that he, as a supernatural being, didn’t need, but his corporation completely overruled him and he fell asleep.</p>
<p>Sunlight slid across Aziraphale’s face, warming him as he blinked bleary eyes. The book of poems he had intended to read was on the table next to him alongside the cold lavender tea. He stretched and slipped out of bed, padding downstairs and vowing never to sleep in his daily clothing again. The wrinkles were going to be next to impossible to get out. A clatter of china and a muttered curse spun him around. There, in the backroom, making tea like he’d been born to it<a href="#foot19" id="foot19back" name="foot19back"><sup>19</sup></a> was…</p>
<p>“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice broke and it was all he could do not to tremble. The demon smiled at him.</p>
<p>“Morning, Angel.” He glowered at the teapot, for Heaven-knows what reason, before pouring it out, adding the angel’s preferred amount of sugar and holding it out to him.</p>
<p>“Since when do you sleep?” Aziraphale took an instinctive sip of tea to steady himself, tasting none of it. His brain was stuck in buffering mode as he stared at his friend whole, unharmed, and apparently capable of making tea. The cup rattled on the saucer, his hand having given up pretending not to shake. Crowley idly scanned the shelves, humming something (probably from that be-bop band of his) under his breath. An image flashed before Aziraphale’s eyes.</p>
<p>
  <em>Smoking red lines and iridescent blood. Mangled wings and shredded clothes.</em>
</p>
<p>It was like those prank email, video things Crowley was always bragging about having invented. The ones where you were looking at something pleasant and then quite suddenly were given a momentary glimpse of something chimeric.<a href="#foot20" id="foot20back" name="foot20back"><sup>20</sup></a></p>
<p>A whimper escaped his throat, causing Crowley to turn, brow furrowed, mouth downturned. The cup and saucer rattled harder.</p>
<p>“Everything okay, Angel?” The demon moved toward him, hand outstretched.</p>
<p>“NO!”</p>
<p>Cup and saucer clattered to the floor, shattering, pieces of delicate bone china destroyed in mere seconds. Crowley peered over his sunglasses, eyes concerned.</p>
<p>“Azira---,”</p>
<p>“You died!” Crowley stopped moving toward him, stuffed his hands in his pockets, too small, always.</p>
<p>"Yeah, I did,” he admitted, scuffing one boot against the floorboards.</p>
<p>“Then how can you be here?!” Aziraphale cried, stomping one foot like a particularly petulant child.</p>
<p>“How can you be here if you’re—if you’re—” He couldn’t finish. Crowley stepped forward, miracling the teacup and saucer fixed and placing them on a bookshelf. He reached out again, not stopping halfway, wrapping long arms around the angel, pulling him closer. Thin fingers carded through his hair and warm breath caressed his temple. Aziraphale leaned closer, resting his forehead on Crowley’s chest, his hands fisting into the black leather jacket.</p>
<p>“I just don’t understand,” he mumbled brokenly.</p>
<p>“I saw you die, I watched them—and then—but now you’re here, but you can’t be!”</p>
<p>“I know. I know,” the demon soothed, his fingers still smoothing through white-blond curls.</p>
<p>“I just wanted to see how you were doing, Angel.” Aziraphale stiffened, pieces falling into place.</p>
<p>“This is a dream, isn’t it,” he sniffed, not moving away.</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“And you’re not really here, are you?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“I miss you.”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>18</sup> <a id="foot18" name="foot18"></a> Somewhere before 1800<a href="#foot18back"> Back</a><br/><sup>19</sup> <a id="foot19" name="foot19"></a> Which was almost true.<a href="#foot19back"> Back</a><br/><sup>20</sup> <a id="foot20" name="foot20"></a> Crowley took great pride in the amount of low-grade evil that one generated even after falling victim to it several times himself. <a href="#foot20back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I don't know that this chapter will clear up the plot at all as I didn't expect two stop here and it had added yet another chapter to this whole thing. And, for whatever reason, I have zero confidence in these Crowley POV chapters, so please excuse my plea for feedback on this chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes Crowley sat up in bed. What on Earth had just happened? The dream ran ’round and ’round his brain. The Almighty didn’t invade people’s dreams for shits and giggles, though he wouldn’t necessarily put it past Her. He growled, irritated, and snatched his phone off the bedside table. The screen’s blue glow broke the unrelenting black of the bedroom, informing him that he was awake one week ahead of schedule. Flopping back dramatically on the bed, he groaned, muttering various imprecations in Her direction as he considered his options:</p>
<ol>
<li>He could go back to sleep. He had a week left before he was to meet up with the angel (was it “too fast” for him to refer to Aziraphale as <em>his </em>angel?), and She hadn’t mentioned needing this “task” of Hers to be done now. Plus, he could always go for more sleep.</li>
<li>He could get up, surprise the angel (always more than worth the lost sleep) and, perhaps, pick up where they left off…</li>
</ol><p>            Crowley hummed in unconscious agreement with that thought. It would be nice to kiss Aziraphale again. Last week's had been a mere brush of a thing; chaste but with the promise of more. If the smitten expression on the principality’s face had been anything to go by, he had been very pleased, which, in turn, pleased Crowley. And, since they were through with their head offices, on their own side (and bless it, wasn’t that a lovely thought!), as it were, and had their first kiss out of the way, mayhaps he could persuade the angel to go a little bit faster.</p><p>            His eyes slipped closed of their own accord and his brain supplied a perfectly detailed memory of Aziraphale from last week and he allowed his thoughts to wander a bit for once. He hadn’t got much further than the angel’s rarely seen wrists<a href="#foot21" id="foot21back" name="foot21back"><sup>21</sup></a> when he was rudely interrupted by loud knocking. Glaring balefully in the direction of the front door, Crowley lay perfectly still, hoping whomever was out there would decide it wasn’t worth the trouble of knocking again and just leave. A second, louder round of knocking banished that hope. The demon flung himself out of the bed, stomping irately to the front door as a third set of knocks began. It was a minor miracle that the door didn’t come off its hinges as Crowley threw it open, revealing a package delivery person.</p><p>            “What the Heaven do yo--,”</p><p>            “Package for you, sir,” the unassuming man interrupted, thrusting a slim, long package in Crowley’s direction.</p><p>            “I doubt that,” Crowley drawled, not taking the box. The delivery man glanced at the clipboard in his other hand, eyes scanning the information in front of him.</p><p>            “Mr. Anthony J. Crowley?” he questioned. The demon’s eyes narrowed, an indistinct suspicion forming in his mind.”</p><p>            “Yesss,” he hissed. The clipboard was thrust under his nose.</p><p>            “Sign here, sir.” Crowley signed his sigil, his brain occupied with other things. He exchanged the clipboard for the package (which was heavier than he expected), using his foot to lever the door closed on the man tipping his cap.</p><p>            “Have a good day, s---,”</p><p>            Gingerly, he placed the box on his desk, stalking around it several times before collapsing into his throne and glowering at the unobtrusive object. Really, he should just open it and find out what was in there. Instead, he conjured up a tumbler and a bottle of scotch, pouring a couple fingers worth<a href="#foot22" id="foot22back" name="foot22back"><sup>22</sup></a>. He took a large gulp, still eyeing the package. It certainly looked harmless enough. Annoyed by his paranoia the demon slammed back the remainder of his alcohol, slinking over to his desk and opening it quickly. He hissed instinctively when he saw the contents and closed it with equal haste.</p><p><em>            Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck?!</em> What had he been roped into? His brain was a screaming blank as he peeked into the package again, hoping something had changed, maybe his serpentine eyes had played tricks on him<a href="#foot23" id="foot23back" name="foot23back"><sup>23</sup></a>. Alas, the box’s contents were unchanged. So, eyes not playing tricks on him. And he wasn’t hallucinating, at least he was fairly sure he wasn’t, which meant it was really there.</p><p>            The ‘it’ in question was a sword. Aziraphale’s flaming sword to be precise. The same flaming sword the angel had confessed to giving away, lied to the Almighty about, and proceeded to try to forget about until Armaforgetaboutit when it turned up with War. The same sword he had watched Aziraphale fail to hang on to after everything didn’t happen when that postal worker had come and…</p><p><em>            Bless it all to Hell!</em> <em>Of course! It was the same delivery man, person!</em></p><p>            Of course, revelatory observations aside, that still didn’t answer the main question: What was the sword doing here instead of back in the possession of its assigned owner, namely, Aziraphale? What exactly was She playing at? Looking into the box again he spotted a white envelope under the hilt. Whether the envelope had been there all along or had just appeared made little difference to him as he slid it out from under the sword, making an extra effort not to touch the weapon. After all, there was no telling what might happen to a demon who dared touch something like that. Holy Water was one thing, but a sword made by Her and given to one of Her angels? That was a tad bit holier than water blessed by some forgettable priest. Of course, some of the holiness might’ve become a bit tarnished in War’s possession, but better not to take any unnecessary chances. Flicking open the envelope, he read the, clearly, heavenly missive, his scowl deepening with every word.</p><p>            Dear Crowley,</p><p>                   Every knight needs a sword. How else is he supposed to slay dragons?</p><p>           </p><p>            Crowley raked a hand through his hair, tugging at it in frustration. That unequivocally confirmed that God Herself had actually broken into his unconscious in order to give him some sort of divine commission. He made a conscious effort to unclench his jaw as he began pacing. He was supposed to be done with this shit! He’d fallen! Been cast out! Away from Her presence, her grace, and her love, and now, six thousand years later, she had the fucking nerve to show up, say she missed him (What the fuck?), ask him all sorts of prying questions (What the fuck?) and then saddle him with a vague mission, quest, thing! What the FUCK?!</p><p>            The demon stopped pacing, glancing once more at the box containing the sword that most definitely wasn’t his.</p><p><em>            Well, I’m not going to do it,</em> he decided. <em>I’m not one of Hers anymore and She can’t make me.</em><a href="#foot24" id="foot24back" name="foot24back"><sup>24</sup></a> Nodding his head decisively he turned away from his desk, very determined to finish out his second week of sleeping before visiting Aziraphale and absolutely, no question about it, forgetting all this and desperately hoping it disappeared completely in the interim.</p><p>            Three steps away he came to an abrupt halt as his true form twisted at his temple, causing his wings to rustle anxiously on another plane. It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar feeling, but it was never a pleasant one as it tended to act as a harbinger. Closing his eyes, Crowley reached out with every sense he possessed, searching for the only creature that could disrupt his form’s perpetually tenuous balance.</p><p>            “Come on, Angel, where are you?” he muttered, reaching out further when he couldn’t find recent<a href="#foot25" id="foot25back" name="foot25back"><sup>25</sup></a> traces of Aziraphale at the shop. Nothing. The demon’s brain began to panic as it became aware that the angel wasn’t anywhere in England. He pushed away the memories of the burning shop and vanished angel, then pushed down the terror and worry and adrenaline. None of that was going to be of any use to him right now. Drawing in a deep breath he stretched out further, casting about for any traces of his friend; the leftover joy of a generous miracle, the aura of contentment he exuded after a good meal, or even the annoyance that was the sure indicator of an inconvenienced angel. Once again, he drew an ominous blank.</p><p>            Coming back to himself in the flat, he noticed how heavy his breathing had become, his lungs working at a capacity most humans never achieved, not to mention the shaking and sweating the rest of his body was doing. Bloody weak, fragile corporation. It had barely enough stamina to withstand the metaphysical abuse he was heaping upon it. Taking a steadying breath, he plunged once more into his search, anxiety creeping in little by little, causing him to skim the surface, searching for intangibles rather than the distinctive traces he had always used to find the reckless principality.</p><p>            He was over Mesopotamia<a href="foot26" id="foot26back" name="foot26back"><sup>26</sup></a>when it hit him. A solid wall of intense, thick emotion; pain, anger, sorrow, grief, rage, and bitterness, all underpinned by something else. Crowley fought through the cutting winds of disconsolate loss, slithering past unbridled wrath, pulled by something; something so familiar he could nearly taste it. For a moment the sandstorm of it all seemed to still and Crowley could almost make out the eye of the storm.</p><p>            <em>Aziraphale? Angel?</em></p><p>            The origin point seemed to pulse for a moment, but was swallowed up by the other side of the storm. Unprepared for the uptick in emotional turbulence, Crowley was thrown violently back into his corporation. Tears fell from the demon’s eyes and sobs racked his body as his brain struggled to collate the metaphysical data he had amassed while simultaneously siphoning off the after effects of the emotional tsunami it had been lashed by. Crowley was only partially aware of these processes as one single thought held sway over him: Someone had hurt his angel and he was going to make them pay for it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>21</sup> <a id="foot21" name="foot21"></a>Even in his fantasies Aziraphale’s cufflinks were bloody awful to take off.<a href="#foot21back"> Back</a><br/><sup>22</sup> <a id="foot22" name="foot22"></a>Four or five.<a href="#foot22back"> Back</a><br/><sup>23</sup> <a id="foot23" name="foot23"></a>Just because it had never happened before didn’t mean it couldn’t happen now.<a href="#foot23back"> Back</a><br/><sup>24</sup> <a id="foot24" name="foot24"></a>He chose to ignore how much he sounded like a four-year-old.<a href="#foot24back"> Back</a><br/><sup>25</sup> <a id="foot25" name="foot25"></a>No older than a couple of hours.<a href="#foot25back"> Back</a><br/><sup>26</sup> <a id="foot26" name="foot26"></a>Satan only knew what it was called now. The names seemed to change every century.<a href="#foot26back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I finished another one! This is mostly filler exposition, but it is important to know Aziraphale's state of mind for the big reveal in two chapters. Feel free to ask questions, leave comments, or make suggestions. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            In the six weeks since the first visitation, things had gone rather sideways for the earth-bound angel. His avowed hope had been that head office would leave him to his own devices for the next year, allowing him to bury himself in his collection and grieve in privacy. Gabriel, apparently, had a different definition of “period of reflection and meditation", than Aziraphale. Every three or four days Aziraphale would be inconvenienced by little “Thinking of You” notes from the archangel with scripture verses that he had found and was inspired to send as “encouragement”. After three weeks Aziraphale had resorted to incinerating them as soon as they appeared. Perhaps the notes wouldn’t have been as aggravating if they didn’t always pop into existence at the worst possible moments. But, inevitably, the times that the loss of Crowley was drowning him were the times the notes appeared<a href="#foot27" id="foot27back" name="foot27back"><sup>27</sup></a>, handwritten in putrid purple ink, adding only anger to whatever maelstrom of feeling the angel was already experiencing. They were more of a hindrance than a help in whatever healing process Aziraphale was attempting to participate in. After all, how could he move forward when every note tore at his soul like nails on a chalkboard, reminding him vividly of all that he had lost and the manner in which it had been torn from him. His current smite on site policy brought faint satisfaction with it.</p><p>            Three days after he had returned to the shop the Bentley was parked on the curb outside. Aziraphale had spotted it and felt heartsick. He didn’t want the Bentley out there where he could see it. Just a glimpse of it was enough to spark hope in his soul. But he couldn’t bear to move it either. It clearly missed Crowley too and it seemed cruel to put it in a garage never to be seen again. He compromised by keeping the shades closed constantly. Sunlight wasn’t good for the books anyway.</p><p>            Between the, now perpetually, dim interior of the bookshop and the melancholy music the gramophone seemed to feel compelled to play constantly, customers were thin on the ground, which suited Aziraphale just fine. The few times he could be bothered to leave his room and open the shop, he was snappish with anyone and everyone who entered. It was easier than being sad and forlorn. When he was annoyed or irritated or angry he wasn’t tired or crying or thinking about all that he no longer had; he wasn’t lying abed reading and re-reading Hamlet again and again and struggling to find a reason to leave the bed in the foreseeable future.</p><p>            The miracle restriction was headache-inducing. Some days he could miracle all the shop’s bills paid, while other days he couldn’t even conjure the money to help a struggling mother pay for groceries. The only solid rule seemed to be that so long as the miracle was used in the service of his own personal needs and never in the service of others, he could be as ridiculous as he wanted. The ability to miracle up inordinate amounts of money was of little comfort when he couldn’t stop a car from hitting a pedestrian. He had stopped leaving the shop quite so often.</p><p>            The three-per-day limitation had been difficult to remember for the first week.<a href="#foot28" id="foot28back" name="foot28back"><sup>28</sup></a>Old habits died hard and making the decision to just get out of bed had felt momentous enough without having to also remember to physically warm up his own water for tea or, more often, cocoa. By the middle of the second week he’d had it down to a science however, and barely had the automatic urge to miracle his beverage warm anymore. He didn’t eat anything, though he couldn’t determine if that was because of the miracle restrictions or just a general lack of appetite. The few times he had tried to force himself to eat something (like sushi from his favorite little place) it just didn’t taste right so he had given it up for now. Maybe if he ever got through this grieving thing he would be able to eat again.</p><p>            He had picked up a book about the grieving process and then thrown it away within weeks. It had seemed very helpful at first, laying out a step-by-step process that apparently all humans went through when mourning the loss of a loved one:</p>
<ol>
<li>Denial</li>
<li>Anger</li>
<li>Bargaining</li>
<li>Depression</li>
<li>Acceptance</li>
</ol><p>Aziraphale had liked being able to identify what stage he was at and having an end goal for himself, which he felt he had achieved by the end of his second week home. It fell apart at the beginning of the third week.</p><p>            He had been dreaming again, talking with Crowley over a glass of wine when the demon had dissolved before his eyes, leaving an empty sofa and a frantic angel. Aziraphale had woken, as he always did from these strange dreams, with tears running down his face and feeling like he had stumbled backwards a step or two in the grieving process. The following week he felt like a child’s yo-yo going up and down, up and down, around, down, up, and then stopping suddenly in a tangled wreck, threatening to snap at the smallest provocation. He had discarded the book by the week’s end and abandoned the concept entirely.</p><p>            The more he went through each day, the more he realized how much Crowley was interwoven into every part of it, whether through idle thoughts or interactions he normally shared with the red-headed menace over a drink or a meal, usually both.</p><p>            One of the days he had decided to open the shop a customer had come in demanding a first edition of Fifty Shades of Grey. Aziraphale had, naturally, tried to explain to the young man that that book was not the sort to have an expensive first edition in existence and that even if it were, this was not the sort of shop to sell something so tawdry and ill-written.<a href="#foot29" id="foot29back" name="foot29back"><sup>29</sup></a> It had nearly taken a miracle for the angel to get the man to leave. As soon as he had done so he had thought of how delighted Crowley would be to hear this little anecdote<a href="#foot30" id="foot30back" name="foot30back"><sup>30</sup></a>, only to remember that he couldn’t tell Crowley because…and, well, needless to say he had hurried the remaining customers out, turning the sign to closed and breaking down again.</p><p>            Those occurrences, at least, felt somewhat sensible. There was a direct correlation between the incident itself, the yawning sense of loss it triggered, and the breakdown that followed. More difficult were the times where something such as the mere thought of his demon’s sharp smirk shattered him when the day previous the exact same thought had affected him not at all. It was maddening to feel like one was constantly on the edge of becoming a teary-eyed mess. He couldn’t even pick out the things causing him distress (be they books, trinkets, or memories) and put them away somewhere because on any given day any one of his books, or his music, or his customers, or even the blasted sunlight might, or might not, cause the principality to shake with suppressed sobs. Short of abandoning all of it and moving somewhere he had never been to with Crowley<a href="#foot31" id="foot31back" name="foot31back"><sup>31</sup></a> there was nothing to be done about his reactions and he was just as well off here as anywhere else.</p><p>            So, here he stayed, angry, grieving, and tired. Aziraphale hadn’t known his body and spirit could be this tired. He still didn’t <em>need</em> to rest, he knew, but his corporeal form overruled him constantly. Four consecutive days without sleep was the most he had managed in the past six weeks. If he had to pick out the worst thing about this whole mourning rigamarole the uncontrollable sleeping would be it.</p><p>            He hated it. Every time his eyes slid shut a multiplicity of visions lay in wait for him. Most nights it seemed to be a reliving of the execution itself which left Aziraphale tangled in his wings upon waking. They seemed to feel the need to try to comfort him through the ill-defined nightmares, but did themselves no favors when the angel rolled over them and rumpled them. The nightmares, at least, weren’t especially clear when he woke, mostly feelings and screams and the impression of glittering blood, non-images that seemed to flicker away like mirages in the desert, the closer you tried to get to them, the further away they moved before disappearing entirely. Worse were the visitations.</p><p>            It was all very Dickensian, really. Aziraphale would unknowingly fall asleep and wake up to Crowley wandering somewhere in the bookshop below. Sometimes they talked, sometimes Aziraphale yelled, sometimes they drank in silence as if nothing had changed. He always woke up crying, remembering every little detail, every smile and joke. It was horrible. So, he tried not to sleep and prayed it would all end soon.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>27</sup> <a id="foot27" name="foot27"></a>In his saner moments he wondered if Gabriel was monitoring his emotional state so he knew when to send his “words of encouragement”.<a href="#foot27back"> Back</a><br/><sup>28</sup> <a id="foot28" name="foot28"></a>The number of notes from Ezekiel expressing variations on the theme of his first was slightly embarrassing.<a href="#foot28back"> Back</a><br/><sup>29</sup> <a id="foot29" name="foot29"></a>This was not entirely true as Aziraphale did have a small collection of tastefully tawdry books from the 1800s, but those were part of his personal collection and, thus, not shelved with the rest of the books in the shop proper.<a href="#foot29back"> Back</a><br/><sup>30</sup> <a id="foot30" name="foot30"></a>Much to Aziraphale’s dismay, the publishing of that book had been one of Crowley’s ideas. He had protested that he hadn’t expected the book to actually sell when the angel scolded him. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he believed the demon.<a href="#foot30back"> Back</a><br/><sup>31</sup> <a id="foot31" name="foot31"></a>Which left Antarctica and given his current state, he wasn’t willing to bet that he wouldn’t find something there that reminded him of his friend.<a href="#foot31back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So this part is a bit shorter, but I decided to split things a bit differently so enjoy! Also, imagine me blaring "Victorious" by Panic! At The Disco almost the entire time I was writing this. As always, please feel free to comment.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            Spinning on his heel, Crowley marched back to his desk, muttering a prayer he would never admit to as he lifted Aziraphale’s sword from its resting place and unsheathed it. Damn, but it was heavy! Gripping it in one hand he adjusted his stance. It had been so long since he’d held a sword let alone fought with one. He cast his mind back to his time as the black knight. That was the last time he was any good at swordplay. Fun times, those.</p><p>            The arrangement hadn’t been in place quite yet and Crowley had been instructed to foment rebellion and disquiet in Albion. A way to achieve that had been winning tournaments against various well-known knights.<a href="#foot32" id="foot32back" name="foot32back"><sup>32</sup></a> He had defeated half of Arthur’s best knights before he had been reassigned. He had even fought Aziraphale, giving him a singular opportunity to observe a rarely seen side of the angel. And what an education that had been. Crowley had been good (one had to be in order to even stand in the ring with the worst of Arthur’s knights), Aziraphale was astounding. It had always taken his breath away, watching his angel transition from a seemingly nervous and bumbling competitor who looked completely out of his depth, to a warrior who could’ve easily taken on (at least) three of the king’s best knights at the same time without breaking a sweat. Not that Aziraphale would have ever done anything like that, but he could’ve.</p><p>            Though, now that he looked at it, Aziraphale’s sword was a lot less like a knight’s sword and more like a gladius. Hmmm. It did require a little bit of rethinking. He’d have to use it more like a short sword. He should’ve been paying more attention when he was assigned to work among the Roman army. He’d just been distracted<a href="#foot33" id="foot33back" name="foot33back"><sup>33</sup></a> at the time. He remembered the seemingly endless ranks of giant shields and the swords that barely seemed to stretch beyond them. The strategy seemed to work though. Pity he didn’t have some sort of shield himself. Well, beggars and choosers and all that.</p><p>            Re-sheathing the sword, Crowley hefted it over his shoulder, snapping on a pair of sunglasses as he headed for the Bentley who, fortunately, was already purring outside the flat blaring “Don’t Stop Me Now”. He grinned as he tore away from the curb.</p><p>            “Let’s go find our angel,” he muttered. The Bentley revved its engine, putting on more speed.</p><p>            First stop was the bookshop. It was the last place Crowley had seen Aziraphale and, thus, the first place to look for clues. The shop still stood, which was endlessly relieving to the demon, but there was no sign of the principality who ran it. Tasting the air outside the shop gave him little in the way of information: glittering ozone indicating an angel, nutmeg, cocoa, decaying ink, pollution etcetera. All this to say that roughly five hours ago Aziraphale had been outside the shop. It was possible he’d been ambushed here, but the traces of angelic ozone weren’t strong enough for it to have been more than a one-angel ambush, if there had even been one at all. And, unfortunately, all angels tended to have much the same odor (Aziraphale being the notable exception) so discovering if there had been another specific angel in the immediate vicinity was almost impossible.</p><p>            Sauntering into the shop he tasted the air again. Nothing unusual, air no holier than normal and all the books in their proper places. The demon prowled through the shelves to the backroom, then back toward the entrance again. He couldn’t pick out anything specific, but something was off. He scanned the building again, his eyes slightly unfocused. The wards were all in place, such as they were, none of them having been tripped by the arrival of something demonic (other than him), no aura of misery and sulfur lingering in the air. But there was something…</p><p>            Closing his eyes, Crowley let his tongue flick in and out, in and out, drinking the air like a sommelier in training, straining to pick out the one difference…there! His eyes opened and narrowed as he caught it, heavily buried under the scent of old books, satisfaction, and safety; repressed but distinct, a carefully cultivated perfume of spite, animus, rancor, and malice.</p><p>            Of course, these emotional odors naturally complemented and reinforced one another, but the more interesting part, the bow tying this odiferous bouquet together, if you will, was a thin ribbon of love. It wasn’t just any kind of love either. It was something all-encompassing, passionate, angelic, and very secret. It tasted almost like Aziraphale’s, only chillier. No less devoted, but much more firmly clamped down on and covered up than Aziraphale’s had ever been.<a href="#foot34" id="foot34back" name="foot34back"><sup>34</sup></a></p><p>            Crowley massaged his forehead, reviewing what he knew. Aziraphale had been (most likely) ambushed by a single angel that held some sort of love-driven grudge against him. There was no blood and no lingering distress, so Aziraphale hadn’t seen it coming and had probably been knocked unconscious, no small feat considering his angel’s original occupation. This also narrowed down the suspects a bit. And, considering he couldn’t sense Aziraphale anywhere on the planet, it also meant they had transported him back to Heaven. Now, what was the most efficient way to get to Heaven from the shop? Snapping his fingers, Crowley disappeared the rug that covered the heavenly summoning circle inscribed into the bookshop’s flooring. He was going to have to talk with Aziraphale about finding a way to get rid of the circle when this was all over. The only question left was: How did one activate a celestial portal when one was the furthest thing from it?</p><p>            He paced around the circle once, then again, and again. He couldn’t light candles, stand in the center, and pray like Aziraphale did. There were probably divine booby traps set to destroy any demon who made such a mistake, a Holy Water shower perhaps. He shivered, remembering Ligur.</p><p>            “You better help me out here,” he muttered in Her direction. “You’re the one sending me on this quest.” An answering surge of power radiated unexpectedly from his left arm. The portal activated and Crowley promptly fell into one of the bookcases.</p><p>            Dropping the sword and frantically stripping off his jacket, he pulled up his shirtsleeve. On his upper arm, like some sort of semi-futuristic tattoo was the shimmering gold outline of an armband with a pair of white-gold wings embossed around it. A black and red snake outlined in obsidian-silver was draped over the wings.</p><p>            Well, that certainly explained the burning sensation before he woke earlier. He studied the seal (because that’s certainly what it was, a divine seal), wondering what She meant by it. Clearly the snake was him and the wings most likely Aziraphale…but why? Perhaps just a form of protection for when he entered the portal? The demon shook his head, shrugging on his jacket before retrieving the sword and scabbard from the floor. Questions could wait for later, he had an angel to save. Drawing the sword and miracling a shoulder strap for the sheath, Crowley stepped into the portal.</p><p>            <em>Time to slay some dragons.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>32</sup> <a id="foot32" name="foot32"></a>It wasn’t the most efficient nor the easiest way. It was, however, the most fun way.<a href="#foot32back"> Back</a><br/><sup>33</sup> <a id="foot33" name="foot33"></a>He’d gone to eat with the angel a week previous to the assignment and still hadn’t quite recovered. Aziraphale’s enjoyment of food was…distracting, to say the least.<a href="#foot33back"> Back</a><br/><sup>34</sup> <a id="foot34" name="foot34"></a>Truely, it was a wonder that Heaven hadn’t caught on sooner. The angel couldn’t lie for anything.<a href="#foot34back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am actually nearing the finish here. I'm going to estimate 3-4 more chapters. Next chapter should clarify most of the confusion you may have, but this chapter will only make it worse. Also, I had intended for some of the words to be smaller on here, but I can't figure out how to reformat the font in HTML. Can anyone help me with that?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            In the beginning the earth was formless and void. Darkness was over the face of the deep and Aziraphale was very confused. Where was he? All around him was infinite dark, but he was definitely standing, not floating through starless space. A beam of light appeared to his right, creating a bright pool illuminating more blackness. It pulsed.</p><p>            “Aziraphale? Guardian of the Eastern Gate?” He started at the Almighty’s voice and hurried toward the shaft of light. It was blindingly bright and Aziraphale had to hold up a hand to block a bit of it. He had the strangest sense of déjà vu.</p><p>            “Yes m’Lord?”</p><p>            “Where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale?” The angel’s brain whirred in confusion. What was She talking about? A flash of red and yellow and the impression of sharp angles jump started his memory.</p><p>            “Ah, yes, tall, sharp, pointy thing. I’m sure it’s around here somewhere…,” he trailed off as the light faded away.</p><p>            <em>Well, that was a thing.</em></p><p>            Surrounded by darkness again, Aziraphale began to feel a little nervous. He liked a bit of isolation as much as the next person, but this was heavy and thick, like being smothered by goose feathers and those plastic pellets they put in weighted blankets. A breeze brushed by his cheek and he leaned into it. That was better. He turned so the wind hit his face, letting it slide through his hair. How lovely. Perhaps if he continued into it he could get to its source and find a way to escape this unrelenting, suffocating nothingness.</p><p>            He wasn’t sure how far or how long he walked as time becomes fairly meaningless without some way to measure its passage, especially when one is an immortal that has no need of food or drink to continuing functioning. However, after a time the wind shifted, swirling around him in an invisible whirlwind, gathering strength. Aziraphale stood, unmoving, in the center of it, allowing the growing breezes to claw at his clothing. He could almost make out a whisper of something, like someone was calling him.</p><p>
  <em>                         Aziraphale…Aziraphale…. time to wake up Angel….</em>
</p><p>            Straining his ears it became a bit clearer, more like a song he knew, but could only hear one or two notes of.</p><p>                        <em>Aziraphale…Please wake up Angel…Aziraphale…</em></p><p>            He stopped breathing, stopped his decorative heart from beating, closed his eyes, and listened. The wind wound around his jacket, snapping it against his legs and tore at his hair, disheveling the curls. Aziraphale ignored it, putting every ounce of focus into finding the whisper in the wind. After a moment he caught it underneath all the flapping and snapping: a buzzing, soft as hummingbird wings, but getting louder.</p><p>                        <em>Aziraphale…Aziraphale…you need to wake up…</em></p><p>The torrent around him spun faster, air twisting past his ears like the thunder of white-water rapids, nearly drowning the still soft words. He could almost make out…</p><p>                        <em>Aziraphale…Aziraphale….</em></p><p>            His name! Someone <em>was</em> calling him, in a voice gentle and low, cool, familiar, and deeply loved. Aziraphale reached for it, as if he could pluck the words from the spinning air and keep them safe, but in vain. The stationary tornado merely spun him around, pushing his hands back against his chest. He tried to open his eyes, to find that voice, or to answer it, but again it was useless. The strong winds whipped unforgivingly at his eyelids and immediately carried away his sounds. Still the voice called, louder and louder.</p><p>                        <em>Aziraphale…. Aziraphale…time to wake up.</em></p><p>            The winds suddenly ceased and Aziraphale felt the pitch-black ground give way beneath him. He fell. His wings sprang out on instinct, struggling to right him, or at least slow him. Nothing worked, he continued to fall like a meteor caught in earth’s gravity.</p><p>            He smelled the burning before he felt it, acrid, but with a sweetness, like a perpetually burning marshmallow. He started to turn his head and see what was happening, but a sharp pain stabbed his chest and radiated out to his extremities. If he cried out at all he didn’t hear it, but it hurt all the same, like his very essence was being ripped out and forcibly remolded. His wings burned black behind him as he fell further and further away from his stars. Tears leaked from beneath his eyelids, burning his cheeks.</p><p>            Landing might’ve been a relief if he hadn’t felt the burning still consuming him down to his marrow. He rolled in on himself, a wretched ball of misery rocking back and forth while all around him was flame.</p><p>            “Aziraphale? Aziraphale?!” The voice was back! Aziraphale struggled to answer. They sounded so concerned for him, so worried.</p><p>            “Aziraphale! Where the heaven are you, you idiot?! I can’t find you!”</p><p>            <em>I’m here, </em>he tried to say, but his throat was to dry to form the words and the bookshop was on fire and he couldn’t move, couldn’t keep the sorrow and the pain and heartbreak at bay…</p><p>                        <em>Time to wake up, Aziraphale.</em></p><p>            Aziraphale fell out of his bed and landed on the floor with a loud thump. Pain spread from the center of his back as his wings took the brunt of the fall. The stupid feathery nuisances had once again manifested as he slept and were paying for their sympathetic nature.</p><p>            He was breathing far too fast and his heartbeat flittered and fluttered and did all sorts of things he wasn’t sure human hearts were supposed to do. He attempted some deep breathing exercises, but was thwarted by the discovery of his hands clapped over his mouth. It took what he considered an unpardonable amount of time<a href="#foot35" id="foot35back" name="foot35back"><sup>35</sup></a> for his brain to convince the rest of him that uncontrollable screaming was neither imminent nor necessary and really, the best thing he could do was get up and make himself a cup of cocoa. Eventually his hands lowered themselves, though Aziraphale could still feel the scream waiting in the back of his throat.</p><p>            Wings dragging behind him, he headed to the bathroom.<a href="#foot36" id="foot36back" name="foot36back"><sup>36</sup></a>The cool water grounded him, flowing over his hands as he dabbed at his tear streaked face with a cloth. Exiting the bathroom, he tucked his wings away and discarded his night clothes. Getting dressed was one of the few things that brought the principality back to himself after a night of sleeping and, inevitably, dreaming. Donning the soft, well-tailored outfit never ceased to give him peace of mind and an indefinable sense of security and safety, much the same way as…well best not to follow that particular line of thought.</p><p>            Plodding downstairs, Aziraphale considered what he was going to do today. He contemplated opening the shop for a couple of hours. It might be nice to see people, if he could keep them from buying anything. A phantom burning on his neck and a stretching tug from his tucked away wings put paid to that notion. It was just as well, he reasoned, as he set the kettle to boil, he was having difficulties controlling his temper on his best days and today was certainly not one of those. He glanced at the calendar on his way to the armchair. Four months to the day today. Yes, definitely a good day to stay closed and get some cleaning done. He could always open the shop tomorrow or the day after. Satisfied with his plan of action, Aziraphale settled into his chair with a wiggle, sipping his cocoa and mentally reorganizing the shelves in preparation.</p><p>            Six cups of cocoa, four cups of tea, and one slightly stale doughnut later it was evening. He had finished his planned cleaning by the early afternoon and felt invigorated enough to reorganize the Victorian Authors section.<a href="#foot37" id="foot37back" name="foot37back"><sup>37</sup></a> Halfway through he had remembered the new-old collection of Arthurian legends he had been given by a fellow rare books dealer who needed a second opinion on its publication date and had asked to have it back by the week’s end. Glad for the momentary reprieve he’d settled into his armchair with a cup of tea and a leftover doughnut and had occupied himself quite pleasantly for the next three hours.</p><p>            The book turned out to be a fraud. A well put together fraud, to be sure, but a definite fraud. He was still considering whether or not he would offer to take it off the dealer’s hands after giving his assessment. The remainder of the afternoon and early evening had been spent finishing what he had started with the Victorians.</p><p>            It had just gone seven when he finished. Heaving a satisfied sigh, the now tired angel hefted himself upright and stretched. The bell over the door rang cheerily and Aziraphale huffed a different sort of sigh.</p><p>            “We’re closed,” he called from behind a shelf, berating himself for forgetting to lock up. His closed sign did not always deter determined customers. Hearing footsteps closing in on him, Aziraphale arranged his face into what he hoped was an apologetic expression and stepped into the narrow aisle suddenly, hoping to catch the interloper off guard.</p><p>            “I really am terribly sorry,” he began, only to stop as he took in his nighttime visitor. His heart cracked a little bit as he took in copper hair, sharp cheek bones, and a stick thin body wrapped in form fitting black clothing. Yellow, slit pupil eyes peered over the rims of stylish black shades as the angel inhaled a shaky breath.</p><p>            “Hello, Angel.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>35</sup> <a id="foot35" name="foot35"></a>Roughly ten minutes.<a href="#foot35back"> Back</a><br/><sup>36</sup> <a id="foot36" name="foot36"></a>It had taken no small amount of planning to get the bathroom to appear with the use of only one miracle instead of several. He thought Crowley would have been proud to see him exploit such an obvious loophole. The subsequent note from Ezekiel requesting that he not spend his miracles in such a manner had been framed and hung on the bathroom wall.<a href="#foot36back"> Back</a><br/><sup>37</sup> <a id="foot37" name="foot37"></a> It had formerly been organized by most to least favorite author. It was now organized by the author’s date of death, earliest to latest.<a href="#foot37back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yay! I did another chapter! Of course I also expanded the story by another chapter as well...oops. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>           Crowley’s entry to Heaven was less climactic than he had anticipated. There was no one to immediately fight, for one. In fact, as he turned a slow circle, he couldn’t see anyone, at all. Stepping carefully off the portal pad, he held the sword in as casual a manner as he could manage while still being ready for any angel he might encounter. The further he walked the more Crowley took in his surroundings and the stranger it got. The area he was strolling through wasn’t just empty, it was abandoned. Panic and consternation hung in the air, clashing with the remnants of love, joy, peace, etc., that were the very bedrock of Heaven. An eerie wind whistled through cracked and shattered panes of glass and support beams creaked and crumbled in response. The normally over-bright quality to the entire place had been dimmed and Crowley could swear he saw hairline cracks running through the marble flooring.</p><p>            <em>What happened here?</em>  He half-expected cobwebs to start appearing in the corners of the ceiling or for dust to start drifting through the cold sunbeams.</p><p>            When he reached the globe that hovered at an intersection Crowley stopped. This, at least, he was familiar with. He had never actually seen it, mind you, it hadn’t existed as such before he fell<a href="#foot38" id="foot38back" name="foot38back"><sup>38</sup></a>, but he had heard Aziraphale mention it numerous times. Apparently, this was the place he always met the archangels to give his reports, which meant that if he went right, he would be headed for Accounting, Earth Surveillance, and I.T. and if he continued forward, he would end up in the archangel suites.</p><p>            It wasn’t a difficult decision. There was no way the archangels were going to publicize whatever it was they were doing to Aziraphale. No, they were much more likely to try to take care of things as unobtrusively as possible. Of course, the thread of utter misery and dejection that drifted from the VIP office area was an equally reasonable indicator. He walked more cautiously now, measuring his steps carefully. It wouldn’t do to rush head-long into a trap; he’d be useless to his angel then. It being Heaven and all, there weren’t a lot of shadows for him to slink to and from, but he made do. The thread of negative emotions was growing more distinct, but Crowley still couldn’t pick out Aziraphale’s aura. They must have been using rather extreme suppression miracles to accomplish that. Normally the angel stuck out like a sore thumb, leaking love and ethereal goodness everywhere he went, not to mention the genuine caring that set him apart from every other angel in Heaven. His trueform twisted and squirmed incessantly at his temple, pushing him further down the corridors. At last it opened up again.</p><p>            Crowley stared in astonishment. The ridiculously tall glass windows were all shattered and only a massive miracle was keeping the wind from whipping in unrelentingly. The window’s framework sagged alarmingly and he was positive there were pieces of glass accumulating in his hair. Could this really be the same place he had been in just over a week ago? His brain said yes, his eyes were having trouble believing it though. The hairline fractures he had suspected the existence of were now fully-formed, jagged cracks that threatened the floor’s overall stability. Scorch marks littered the floor as well, clear enough evidence of celestial rage.</p><p>            He was half-way across the room when he ran into the barrier. He had been right. The archangels were using one Heaven of a miracle to hide Aziraphale. Walking up to it he hadn’t noticed the mirroring effect the miracle created. It probably worked the same way on the opposite side of the barrier, keeping curious angels out on his side, and bouncing Aziraphale’s own aura back at him on the other side. He held his hand against the invisible wall, letting his demonic powers slither over and around it, poking at any weak points. It was rather impressive, he had to admit. It had been masterfully sewn together, but it had one weak point that should have been accounted for: Aziraphale.</p><p>            Whatever was happening on the opposite side of this illusion, the miracle hadn’t been imbued with the necessary strength to withstand the full force of Aziraphale’s emotions. It wouldn’t stand up against any immortal’s emotional surges, really. It would have held out well against a human’s emotions, and very well too. There would have been no bleed-through at all, even if the human in question was in agony, ecstasy, or uncontrollable anguish. But against the full out-pouring of even one emotion from an angel or demon? Laughable! Like pouring water through a…a…a something that didn’t hold water very well. All that to say that, the archangels had, effectively, woven together a miracle that acted as a double-sided mirror, but hadn’t put in enough reinforcement on the inside to keep it from shattering in places. Which brought him to his method of entry into this enclosure: the sword.</p><p>            Aziraphale’s emotions had battered at this cage quite diligently and splintered the glassing in areas, creating gaps that allowed his emotions to bleed into the reality that Heaven was a part of (thus all the fragmentized windows and scorched flooring). All Crowley had to do now was find a gap large enough to wedge the sword into. It wouldn’t break the miracle itself, but it would provide him with enough leverage to get to the other side. Once he was on the other side it would be fairly simple to dismantle.</p><p>            Shouldering the sword and placing one palm on the mirror partition he reached into the fabric of the miracle, fingers searching for the gap he needed. He found several small ones, but none quite big enough. Moving a foot to the left he repeated the procedure again. Nothing but a bunch of small holes. He worked his way steadily across the barrier from the center and then from above center going back the way he came. He’d marked out one or two areas as possibilities if he couldn’t find what he wanted. As he made his third pass, now checking areas below center, a voice called to him.</p><p>            “You’ll never get in you know.” Crowley paused, forcing his shoulders not to tense and pasting on a smirk as he turned around.</p><p>            “Is that so, Gabe?” It was a low blow, but he wasn’t really meant to be playing fair now, was he? The triumph Crowley wanted to feel at the flicker of pain in Gabriel’s eyes was overshadowed by the memories dredged up by the nickname.  The archangel threw back his shoulders, a simulacrum of a smile on his face as he paced in Crowley’s direction.</p><p>            “You know, when Michael first approached me with this idea, I was a bit skeptical. After all, it’s never been attempted before, reforming a straying angel. Our general policy is much the same as it was with your lot: Let ’em fall.”</p><p>            <em>Now wasn’t </em>that<em> interesting…</em></p><p>“Michael always was a wanker,” Crowley replied, affecting an indifference he certainly did not feel. He let his gaze drift pointedly around the wrecked room while his unoccupied hand continued searching for the gap. He just needed a little more time.</p><p>            “So that’s what all this is then?” He waved the sword about in a vaguely all-encompassing gesture.</p><p>            “Looks like an unqualified success to me.” Gabriel ignored his sarcasm, his eyes fixed on the weapon in Crowley’s hand.</p><p>            “Where did you get that?” Crowley smothered a smirk, feigning stupidity.</p><p>            “Where did I get what?”</p><p>            “That! The sword! Where did you get it?”</p><p>            “This sword?” He glanced at the blade disinterestedly, flipping it into the air.</p><p>            “Yes, that sword, demon. Where—” Crowley caught the sword by its point with his middle finger, grinning manically as he interrupted the archangel.</p><p>            “You mean <em>this</em> sword that used to be Aziraphale’s flaming sword? The one that disappeared for millenia only to end up in the hands of War? This sword, that then fell into the hands of three children and one Antichrist who didn’t want the world to end?” He paused dramatically, enjoying Gabriel’s barely contained outrage.</p><p>            “That sword?”</p><p>            “YES!” Crowley strolled along the barrier, letting his hand slide along it openly (it wasn’t as if Gabriel didn’t have some idea of what he was doing).</p><p>            “Mother gave it to me.”</p><p>            “She what?! Why would She---and to a---” Gabriel spluttered with apoplectic rage. Crowley did smirk then. It was just too easy sometimes. He shrugged,</p><p>            “Guess even as a demon She still likes me best.” He promptly ignored the ensuing tirade aimed at him as his fingers found the gap he had been looking for. Muttering under his breath, he sent a tendril of power through, testing the give. He smiled. Okay, now he just needed a way to keep Gabriel from interfering…</p><p>            He let his eyes slowly scan the room. There wasn’t much to work with. Misery leaked steadily out of the gap and Crowley idly watched it seep into the floor, creating the beginnings of a new crack by his feet. Shifting away from it he was reminded of the sword resting once again on his shoulder. And then he had it. Gabriel was still lecturing incoherently, the old windbag. Aiming the sword straight down, Crowley scraped it across the floor in a wide arc. The resultant sound was everything Crowley had hoped it would be, like demonic nails across a diamond, high-pitched and cringe inducing. The archangel stopped midsentence, hands flying to his ears.</p><p>            “Look, Gabriel, my point is, you win some and you lose some.” Crowley snapped his fingers, calling a bit of hellfire into his hand.</p><p>            “And this time, you lost.” Before any response could be formulated Crowley threw the hellfire into the line carved by the sword.</p><p>            Normally, this stunt would have had little, to no effect. The general air of overbearing love and peace would have immediately smothered the unchecked occult flame. However, the leakage of severely negative emotions had wreaked havoc, allowing the hellfire something to feed on. And feed it did. An eight- or ten-foot wall of flame immediately surrounded the demon. Crowley resisted the urge to take a victory lap, thrusting the sword into the gap and wrenching it hard to one side. He felt the crack widen and used a demonic miracle to shore it up, keep it from collapsing on him. He re-sheathed the sword, throwing himself through the barrier.</p><p>            Upon reaching the other side, he unsheathed the sword, lighting the blade with hellfire and, praying his next idea worked as well as the last one had, pushed it up against gap he had come through, simultaneously sending a burst of demonic power through it. The fire along the edge of the blade flared up for a moment before being sucked into the invisible battlement, turning it a reddish-black before it regained its original invisibility and doused the fire along the blade. Breathing a sigh of relief Crowley sheathed the sword and pressed a hand against the wall. He could feel the changes his miracle had worked. The barrier wouldn’t be pummeled into submission by ethereal emotions anymore, instead it would channel them into its fabric and use them to strengthen itself. Crowley allowed himself another smirk. It should be enough to keep the archangels busy while he rescued his angel. Speaking of…Taking a deep breath Crowley turned around to face Aziraphale.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>38</sup> <a id="foot38" name="foot38"></a> The fall had prompted a large-scale remodel of Heaven, at which point the globe had been placed in the newly-minted open-office space as a way to better keep tabs on agents in the field. Both Aziraphale and Crowley thought it a bit garish. <a href="#foot38back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So this expanded on me yet again. The plot ran away and did something and now I have a whole new set of predicaments to untangle. Anyway, enjoy the chapter and let me know what you think!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            He wasn’t sure what he had expected to see, looking at Aziraphale, but this wasn’t it. The scene was chillingly innocuous. There were no visible injuries, no blood dripping, no screams, not even an instrument of torture sitting on a tray off to the side; just Aziraphale, bound wrist and ankle to a chair in the middle of the room, shoulders relaxed, eyes closed, as if sleeping.<a href="#foot39" id="foot39back" name="foot39back"><sup>39</sup></a> His wings were out, resting rather forlornly on the floor like they were exhausted. They perked up a bit as he stepped closer, reaching for him. An involuntary smile crossed Crowley's lips as he brushed them gently with his fingertips. The smile faded as he knelt in front of his angel, cupping his face and caressing his cheek.</p><p>            “Aziraphale,” he murmured soothingly, “Aziraphale, time to wake up Angel.”</p><p>            The angel huffed a sigh, turning into his touch. His eyes remained closed and Crowley huffed a sigh of his own, letting his hands slide down to rest on the angel’s wrists. At least he would have if it hadn’t been for the ropes in the way. Crowley narrowed his eyes at the offensive bindings, studying them. They were limiting Aziraphale’s ability to perform miracles, he could see that, but it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. If you really were <em>that</em> concerned about a “rebel angel” mucking things up with his powers, why not suppress them entirely? It would be less of a hassle surely? He shrugged, running a finger across each set of ropes and watching them fall away. It didn’t matter now. There was no distinguishable difference now that the binds were off, but Crowley felt better.</p><p>            Standing up he dropped a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead, watching in amusement as the angel’s wings fluttered in response. He knew wings were sensitive to outside influences, so to speak, but he hadn’t expected such…personality.<a href="#foot40" id="foot40back" name="foot40back"><sup>40</sup></a> At his back his own wings began tugging, trying to pull themselves out as Aziraphale’s mantled over him and Crowley had to hiss at them to get them to settle. Rolling his shoulders, he leaned over Aziraphale, placing his hands on either side of his head, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reached out.</p><p>            He found Aziraphale’s essence much more easily this time, but it still seemed off somehow. Crowley pushed further, closer to the pulsing light that held the angel’s trueform within it. It felt similar to the first time they had switched corporations, Crowley essentially slipping out of his body and into Aziraphale’s, only this time Aziraphale wasn’t concurrently moving toward his. Instead his essence sat still, radiating sadness in a steady stream. He slithered closer, twining himself around his angel. He felt the pulse of recognition a moment before the sadness intensified, turning to grief. Crowley unwound himself quickly, backing away from Aziraphale’s core. What could have happened that the angel’s first reaction to him was grief? He slithered back to his own body, pacing as soon as his eyes opened.</p><p>            Aziraphale’s trueform was unharmed and unshackled. Aside from his puzzling reaction to brushing up against Crowley’s essence, everything was normal, as if Aziraphale didn’t even know he was trapped here. Crowley stopped pacing. Maybe he <em>didn’t</em> know he was trapped. He ran a hand through his hair. It certainly made sense and explained the absolute necessity of the mirror effect. That being said, the archangels would’ve needed more than illusion miracles to convince Aziraphale of anything. The angel would’ve easily seen through any illusion created by another celestial being. So whatever deception they had practiced on him could have only been…demonic.</p><p>            A terrible suspicion wended its way through Crowley’s mind...<em>Cooperation with our old enemies</em>…and he started running his hands carefully, but thoroughly over his friend’s head and neck. At the base of the angel’s skull he found the puncture mark. Rage swept through him and his hands shook against the silent angel. He forced himself to take several deep, shuddering breaths. His anger wasn’t going to help Aziraphale. Vengeance would have to wait till his angel was safe. Placing his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s head Crowley closed his eyes and pushed in again.</p><p>            “Don’t worry, Angel,” he muttered, “I’ll be there soon.”</p><p>            Crowley headed away from Aziraphale’s core this time, heading directly for his brain instead. Getting there was fairly easy. Finding what he was looking for once he was there was a bit harder. Searching any brain was a difficult prospect. Searching a celestial one significantly more so, especially Aziraphale’s. Living so long on earth had filled his brain with a plethora of sights, sound, and experiences and searching through it was like rifling through the bookshop. Crowley’s saving grace, if you wanted to call it that, was a demonstration he had been forced to participate in about fifty years ago in Hell.</p><p>            Flicking his tongue out, he searched for the dark energy that indicated occultic intervention. His first scent of it was in the frontal lobe where it lay like a heavy blanket. Crowley knew he wouldn’t get in from there. The entire area was practically comatose right now. Fortunately, he knew where the “back door” was located and what the entry code might be. Slipping away, he slithered over the demonic miasma until he reached the occipital lobe and the primary visual cortex. It was here that he insinuated himself into the cloud of demonic magic that had woven itself into the neurons.</p><p>            Entry was easier than he expected; a few properly hissed incantations, including the password, and he was granted access to the demonically enhanced serum floating around Aziraphale’s brain. Despite this, he still had to fight against falling prey to the serum’s chemical programming. It was an undiscriminating piece of work to begin with, designed to use memories and fear as realistic emotional and mental torture. And, considering the dosage he was seeing here, it was at least twice as voracious for victims. After some minutes Crowley felt the demonic miracles give way before him, letting him into the central hub where the illusion aspect of the serum played out in seemingly real time for its victim.</p><p>            Crowley blinked once as the chemicals and blackness melted into solid scenery. He was standing across the street from the bookshop, because of course he was. The Bentley was parked in its usual spot which was interesting, and it was evening. He checked his appearance, making sure all was in order before sauntering into the shop.</p><p>            The bell rang out cheerily, but Crowley’s heart fell. From the outside the shop had looked much the same, though the shades usually weren’t drawn until later in the evening. Inside, however, there was an air of dismal foreboding and gloominess that was not at all helped by whatever the gramophone was playing (Chopin perhaps?). The usual musty dustiness of the interior was present, though it appeared to be less of a miracled phenomenon and more of an actual indication of indifferent neglect. A shiver crawled up his spine and he had to remind himself very firmly that none of this was real. Aziraphale’s actual bookshop was in perfect order, well, aside from its missing proprietor, and what he was seeing here was window dressing designed to keep the angel trapped; never mind the accuracy with which the shop tended to reflect its owner’s state of mind.</p><p>            A strained “We’re closed,” directed him to the middle-back area of the shop and Crowley shook his head fondly. One day, he was going to convince Aziraphale that, particularly in the evenings, his first assumption should not be that a persistent customer had gained inexplicable access to his shop. He sauntered on, completely unsurprised when the angel appeared suddenly out of one of the aisles.</p><p>            His heart quaked at his angel’s sallow appearance. Never had he looked so haggard, not even in the 14<sup>th</sup> century when people seemed born to die and all the “frivolous miracles” in the world could not stem the endless tidal-wave of death. Aziraphale stopped mid-, insincere, apology, and Crowley’s heart cracked at the hollow resignation and weariness in his eyes. His voice shook.</p><p>            “Hello, Angel.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>39</sup> <a id="foot39" name="foot39"></a>Which was disturbing on its own as Crowley had never seen the angel sleep, despite his claims to having tried it a time or two. <a href="#foot39back"> Back</a><br/><sup>40</sup> <a id="foot40" name="foot40"></a>His had ached for at least a week after Aziraphale had given him the Holy Water.<a href="#foot40back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Whew! I finished! Yay! Please let me know if it feels like it flows properly, I was a little concerned that it was too jarring or jumped illogically in places...anyway. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            Aziraphale turned away, heading for the backroom and Crowley, frozen in place, stared.</p><p>            “Are you coming or not?” The angel’s impatient query got him moving again, dropping with a literal “plop,” onto the sofa. A drink appeared in his hand, though he couldn’t say if that had been his miracle or Aziraphale’s. The angel was sitting in his usual chair, next to the desk, a weary and wary expression on his face. Crowley took a sip of his drink, unsure of what to do. He’d come in, figurative guns blazing, ready to rescue his angel the same way he’d done for millennia, only to discover that the success of this entire enterprise might hinge on the one thing Crowley was rarely capable of around Aziraphale: subtlety.</p><p>            It wasn’t that Crowley couldn’t be subtle when he put his mind to it, it’s just that it never <em>actually</em> fooled Aziraphale. He had given it up as a bad job around the time of the Crucifixion and never looked back. Now he was racking his brain, trying to remember what he had done before, when Aziraphale still questioned virtually every word out of his mouth. Crowley suppressed a groan, taking another gulp of his drink and running a hand through his hair.</p><p>            “Is everything alright, my dear?” Hysterical laughter bubbled in Crowley’s throat. Even at the beginning, Aziraphale had been able to read him like a book. He repressed the hysterics as best he could as he answered.</p><p>            “I’m fine, Angel, relatively speaking. Just got a bit of a puzzle to untangle.” He could see Aziraphale’s reluctant interest.</p><p>            “Maybe I could help?” The offer was made softly, directed more towards the angel’s drink than Crowley himself. He forced himself to sprawl across the sofa, taking his glasses off and giving the angel a considering look.</p><p>            “Suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he conceded, “Two heads are better than one.” Aziraphale didn’t smile, just continued boring a hole into his glass. Crowley downed the rest of his, placing the glass on the floor next to him, and deciding on directness for once.</p><p>            “I don’t know what happened.” The blond frowned, giving him a sharp look before staring at his drink again.</p><p>            “I can see that you’re sad,” he continued gently, leaning forward, never taking his eyes off his friend, “and angry, and suspicious, but I don’t know why.” Aziraphale’s eyes rose to meet his, puzzlement dominating his expression, but still sat silent.</p><p>            “Please, Angel,” Crowley pleaded, reaching for the angel, only to stop when the other flinched away, “please, tell me what happened. I’ll fix it, promise.” Aziraphale’s bottom lip trembled momentarily, but then his spine stiffened and his eyes hardened.</p><p>            “That is not at all funny, Crowley,” he said, stiffly.</p><p>            <em>Foul fiend!</em> Crowley could almost hear. He sat back again, repressing the urge to snap at the prissy angel.</p><p>            “Do I look like I’m joking, Aziraphale?” Once again, the angel seemed perplexed by the placidity of Crowley's response. The demon’s body vibrated with nervous energy. Part of him wanted to pace, do something while another part longed to reach for the celestial, but he looked a bit like a cornered animal, waiting for a sudden movement to give him a target to strike at. But he couldn’t stay leaning back as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Instead, he sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him to keep them from reaching.</p><p>            “I want to help, really, I do. But I can’t if I don’t know what happened. Just tell me what I did, and I’ll apologize, no questions asked. I’ll make it right. Please, Angel.”  It wasn’t until he looked into watery blue eyes that Crowley realized his body had collapsed, without his consent, at Aziraphale’s feet, his arms resting on the angel’s knees.</p><p>            “Must you torture me so, love?” Crowley’s heart simultaneously broke and stopped beating completely. His forehead rested on Aziraphale’s thighs as he tried to remember how to breathe properly.</p><p>            “I don’t mean to,” he whispered hoarsely, looking up at his dearest friend. Tears streaked Aziraphale’s cheeks, dripping off his chin to make plip-plop stains on his waistcoat. Taking a chance, Crowley reach his hand up to cradle his angel’s face, thumbs wiping away tears even as more leaked over his fingers.</p><p>            “Please say you believe me, Angel. I just want to help, please.”</p><p>            Aziraphale fell forward into him, hands covering his face as he began to cry in earnest. Crowley surged up to meet him in the middle, wrapping his spindly arms around the sobbing angel, his cheek pressed tightly to his fluffy curls. Soft hands curled into his jacket, holding hard and pulling closer. He obliged as best he could, though it meant mostly sitting in the principality’s lap. Better still, it gave him the range he needed to more solidly encircle Aziraphale and hold on just as tight.</p><p>            <em>Oh, Angel. What did they do to you?</em></p><p>            He couldn’t have said how long they sat there, Aziraphale sobbing into his chest while he murmured soothing hush-a-byes into the angel’s hair, never letting go. His shirt was starting to become uncomfortably wet by the time Aziraphale’s cries dissipated into heavy, shuddering sighs and sniffles. He pressed a kiss to the nearly white hair, his memory wandering to the times he had comforted Warlock in a similar manner.</p><p>            “I thought you would’ve disappeared by now.” Crowley almost missed the comment, soft and muffled as it was.</p><p>            “Now why would I do that, dear heart?” Aziraphale stilled at the endearment, as did Crowley, but he didn’t move, didn’t let go. A very pregnant<a href="#foot41" id="foot41back" name="foot41back"><sup>41</sup></a> pause passed them by before Aziraphale spoke again.</p><p>            “Usually, I’ve woken up by now.” Crowley hugged him more tightly, trying to push away the ache that pulsed in his ribcage as he closed his eyes against willful tears of his own. The angel melted into him, fingers loosening their hold, but not falling away.</p><p>            “I’m sorry, Angel,” he whispered, “so damn sorry.” He could feel the small smile that momentarily alit on the angel’s lips.</p><p>            “There’s nothing to forgive, my dear. It wasn’t your fault.”</p><p>            “Wasn’t yours either,” Crowley muttered sotto voce, loosening his hold to move a hand to thread into the hair at the angel’s nape. Aziraphale’s response (the angel having been blessed with literally divine hearing) was almost lost in the depths of his jacket.</p><p>            “Would that were true.” Now Crowley did let go, carefully pushing the angel back into his chair and tilting his chin until their eyes met.</p><p>            “What?” He struggled to keep his anger from bleeding into the question (he was going to KILL every one of those fucking bastards!), though it still came out rather clipped. The blond in front of him heaved a guilt-ridden sigh, leaning further back into his chair.</p><p>            “Nothing, dearest, just leave it be.”</p><p>            “No.” Aziraphale’s eyes, which had wandered over his shoulder snapped back to focus on his friend’s</p><p>            “Crowley…” The warning he was going for only sounded tired.</p><p>            “No, Aziraphale. It’s not your fault! Whatever happened, I know, without a doubt, that it was not and could never be your fault. And I will not sit here and let you blame yourself.” His eyes were aflame with conviction, and probably full yellow right now, but the angel just twisted his hands in his lap, eyes downturned.</p><p>            “You can’t know that,” he nearly whimpered, shaking his head.</p><p>            “Sure, I can,” Crowley countered cockily, carding one hand gently through his curls, “I know you.”</p><p>            “And look what that got you,” Aziraphale muttered despondently. Crowley sat a little straighter, latching onto the phrase like a lamprey.</p><p>            “What <em>did</em> it get me,” he asked softly, running one hand down each of the principality’s shoulders, stopping only when he reached his hands, dropping a kiss to the top of each, “angel? What did knowing you get me?”</p><p>            Aziraphale shuddered and his eyes clamped shut, his breath quickening. Crowley leaned forward until he was head-to-head with the trembling angel, his words barely a breeze between them.</p><p>            “What happened, Aziraphale?”  The blond just shook his head, looking for all the world like he was going to deny Crowley again.</p><p>            “They killed you, Crowley,” he said lowly, eyes open, but distant, voice strained. But once he started there was no stopping the words that poured forth, almost too fast for Crowley to process.</p><p>            “They poured Holy Water over you because of me, because I wasn’t strong enough or clever enough to stop them. If I hadn’t been stupid enough to believe they would let us be after the switch this wouldn’t have happened. Should’ve just taken you up on running away to Alpha Centauri, but I was too much of a coward to do so. I’m sorry.”</p><p>            “Oh, Angel! Aziraphale! No, no, no, no, no! You have nothing to be sorry for, I’m here, I’m right here!”</p><p>            Crowley knew it was a useless thing to protest even before he heard Aziraphale’s painfully humorless huff of laughter, but it hurt, in ways he couldn’t entirely explain, to see the angel so broken over him.</p><p>            “Oh, my dear, I wish that were true.” He sighed, cupping Crowley’s cheek watching with a flicker of indulgent amusement as Crowley nuzzled into his palm.</p><p>            “Unfortunately, I know all too well that you’re not much more than a vivid hallucination that my mind seems to feel compelled to conjure up every couple of weeks.”</p><p>            Crowley didn’t rear back in shock (though it took quite the effort not to), choosing instead to kiss the angel’s palm. His mind raced. How long did Aziraphale think Crowley had been dead for? How was he going to get the angel out of here if he didn’t even believe the demon was real? He racked his brains for something, anything. If he could just get the angel out of this thrice-damned façade…the outline of an idea sparked in his mind. It was risky, but really it couldn’t be any worse than what he was facing now.</p><p>            Pressing another quick kiss to the angel’s palm, Crowley scrambled back to standing, conjuring up a smirk he hoped looked somewhat genuine.</p><p>            “Well, if that’s the case, then let’s go have some fun, Angel, make the most of the time we have. I saw the Bentley parked outside, let’s go for a drive, or go to the Ritz. I can guarantee there’ll be a table open for us.” He snapped his fingers turning off the gramophone, which had begun to play a variation on Mozart’s Lacrimosa, heading for the door without waiting for an answer. He had just begun turning the knob when Aziraphale caught up with him.</p><p>            “Crowley,” The demon grinned, conjuring a pair of shades before turning to face his friend, raising an inquiring eyebrow.</p><p>            “What’s up?” Aziraphale still stood at the entryway to the backroom, hands twisting anxiously, eyes red-rimmed.</p><p>            “It’s just that…well…y-you know…perhaps we could just stay here, have a bit more wine and order something in…,” Crowley waved off the remainder of his sentence, summoning up all the bravado he could muster.</p><p>            “Nah, you need to get out, Angel, stop moping about in the shop.” Aziraphale managed to look a bit offended at that, sputtering,</p><p>            “Now, really, there’s no need for---,”</p><p>            “Did you hear what your ancient musical monstrosity was playing?” Crowley cut in, only feeling a little bit bad for needling the angel this way, but he needed to shake him up and a bit of riling was the easiest way. He looked at Aziraphale over the top of his glasses.</p><p>            “Lacrimosa, really? And you call <em>me</em> dramatic.” That garnered him a small smile, though it faltered a moment later.</p><p>            “Crowley…,” he let go of the knob, striding across the shop and stopping in front of his angel.</p><p>            “Just…trust me, Angel,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as blindingly desperate as he felt. This had to work, it just had to. He held out a hand, palm up.</p><p>            “Just take my hand and close your eyes. I’ll take care of the rest. Yeah?” He could read the worry and fear in the ethereal blue eyes, all the what ifs that kept him tied here: What if I reach out and he disappears? What if I wake up as soon as I step forward? What if? What if? What if? But slowly, Aziraphale placed a shaking hand in his.</p><p>            “I trust you, Crowley.” Crowley smiled fondly.</p><p>            “Now, just close your eyes and let me take care of the rest.” Aziraphale nodded, determinedly, standing up tall and closing his eyes.</p><p>            “That’s it. Just follow my lead.” Step by step Crowley walked them to the door. He felt Aziraphale’s grip tighten when he heard the bell jangle above him and bent his head to the blond’s.</p><p>            “It’s okay, I’ve got you. We’re gonna walk out the door and when you open your eyes, I’ll be the first thing you see, promise.”</p><p>            A reassuring squeeze given and returned and they were out the door. Much to Crowley’s relief they stepped out into blackness. Without Aziraphale’s brain telling the serum what to sketch out, the central hub of the illusion reverted to its blank slate status.</p><p>            “Crowley, why is it so quiet?” A ripple in the darkness spun Crowley toward his friend, tugging him closer.</p><p>            “Angel, I need you to listen to me. I need you to keep your eyes closed and stop thinking. Stop thinking, contemplating, and wondering. Can you do that for me?” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed and his mouth opened. Crowley cringed, waiting for the darkness to dissolve back into faux-Soho at a word. Miraculously, the blond seemed to think better of what he was going to say, nodding firmly and giving the demon’s hand another squeeze. Crowley’s sigh of relief was involuntarily audible and he pressed a quick kiss to the other’s forehead.</p><p>            “This won’t take a moment, promise. Just…whatever happens next, don’t let go of me.” Muttering another incantation under his breath, Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and snapped.</p><p>            The snap echoed in the darkness for a moment and then came the fall. It was a sensation Crowley was sinkingly familiar with, like an elevator falling endlessly, keeping your stomach feeling clenched and tingly, with no end in sight. The landing was definitely more pleasant than his mind feared, no boiling sulfur for one thing. The familiarity of his corporation welcomed him by drawing in a relieved breath and Crowley opened his eyes.</p><p>            Aziraphale still sat in front of him, his breathing steady, his face blank. Nervously, Crowley pulled back a bit, letting one hand trail across the principality’s cheek.</p><p>            “Aziraphale, you can open your eyes now.” Time stopped as Crowley waited, his breath following suit. After a long minute worried blue eyes fluttered open, immediately seeking his gaze. A frown marred the pale face, but before he could ask, he felt his sunglasses being removed.</p><p>            “Really, dearest,” the angel tutted, “must you be such a slave to your aesthetic even while rescuing me?” Crowley’s smirk was downright devious and he nearly thanked God for this unlooked for opportunity that he was definitely not going to squander.</p><p>            “I have standards, Angel.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>41</sup> <a id="foot41" name="foot41"></a> Like seven months with twins pregnant. <a href="#foot41back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yes! I have done another chapter! I had to cut myself off. I could write them bantering all day and never move the plot forward. But the plot continues apace!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            Crowley’s smirk morphed into a genuine smile as Aziraphale began to laugh. It disappeared when his laughter turned into sobs. The demon’s arms were immediately around the angel who, in turn, embraced his friend with fervor, hands fisting into the back of his jacket as he leaned into him.</p><p>            “It’s okay, Angel,” he soothed, rocking him slightly side-to-side, “I’m here. I’ve got you. It’s all going to be okay now.” Sooner than Crowley expected the angel’s tears dissolved into wet breaths and he could almost hear Aziraphale gathering his faculties.</p><p>            “I’m sorry, my dear. Afraid my emotions got the better of me there.” Crowley smiled gently and rolled his eyes fondly.</p><p>            “Nothing to apologize for. It’s been one Heaven of a day.”</p><p>            “I think you mean one Helluva four months,” Aziraphale remarked. Crowley discreetly checked his watch as he unwrapped himself from around the angel and stretched.</p><p>            “’Sthat how long it’s been?” Aziraphale nodded, though he seemed more preoccupied with ogling the stretching serpent than finishing his thought.</p><p>            “Hmmm. What? Oh, yes, yes, it’s been four months since…well.” His gaze faltered and he took a deep breath.</p><p>            “But, given that I am <em>here</em> and you are <em>still</em> here I suspect my internal calendar may be a bit inaccurate. Am I right?” Crowley nodded reluctantly, wishing the angel weren’t so damn clever.</p><p>            “Yeah. It’s only been maybe…,” he double-checked his watch, “…six, seven hours, at the most, since you disappeared?” Aziraphale stopped breathing, staring at Crowley uncomprehendingly.</p><p>            “How is that even possible? Even given that Heaven runs on a different time from Earth, it shouldn’t be possible to compress that much time into---,”</p><p>            “That’s ’cause it’s not Heavenly, Angel. It’s Hellish.” Crowley began pacing agitatedly. He hadn’t wanted to do this now. He had rather hoped he could get the angel back to the shop or his flat before having to explain the mind fuck that had just occurred. Aziraphale observed his friend’s disquietude and subsided, folding his hands in his lap.</p><p>            “I’m listening.” Crowley continued pacing, struggling to find the proper place to start.</p><p>            “So, it’s like this: there’s this demon in Hell, real clever bugger, figures out this way to torture human souls by trapping them in their minds, making them relive this situation or that situation for 20, 30, 40 years. Only the clever thing is that virtually no time passes anywhere else. Earth time, only ten minutes might pass, an hour at most, but for the poor bastard who’s been dosed with this shit, it’s like lifetimes have passed.”</p><p>            “Time dilation. You’re talking about time dilation, Crowley.” The demon nodded, his pacing momentarily forgotten, his eyes on his boots.</p><p>            “Yeah, that’s it.” He looked at Aziraphale, lost.</p><p>            “I’ve never seen this stuff anywhere outside of Hell, Aziraphale. Sure, humans have experimented over the years and theorized, made it part of their entertainment media, but they’ve yet to have any true success.”</p><p>            “So, you’re saying I was drugged with an occultic serum for torturing humans? Is that why you were able to get to me, its demonic origins?” Crowley shook his head, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze.</p><p>            “What I’m saying is that someone from Up Here got a hold of something from Down There and heavily dosed you with it. It’s sheer luck, of the sort that only you and I seem to have, that I was forced to be ’round and about during a demonstration of how that stuff works and filed the information away out of habit.” He gave Aziraphale a minute or two to process.</p><p>            “I know you probably have more questions, Aziraphale, but right now we really need to get out of here.” Aziraphale nodded, standing up, fussing with his clothes, and putting his wings away as Crowley watched the familiar motions fondly. The angel caught his gaze as he glanced up, raising an eyebrow at his friend. Crowley shrugged helplessly, cheeks heating slightly. Aziraphale’s mouth quirked into one of his trademark suppressed smiles and Crowley’s stomach did a backflip. He forced a scowl.</p><p>            “Alright, enough of that, we have an escape to engineer.”</p><p>            “Of course, dear. Where do we start?”</p><p>            “Not sure. I’ve been just taking it all as it comes, really.”</p><p>            “As per usual,” Aziraphale murmured.</p><p>            “Now, hang on just a minute there, Angel! Who is the one that’s needed more rescues due to impulsivity, hmmm? The Bastille? 1941? Any of those ringing any bells?” Aziraphale had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.</p><p>            “That night at the church was…unfortunate. I probably should have seen through that particular charade. Would’ve spared your poor feet for a start…I am sorry about that.” Crowley snapped his fingers, miracling his shades back on. The contrition on the angel’s face was too much and Crowley swallowed against a lump in his throat.</p><p>            “It’s okay, angel. Would do it again in a wingbeat.” Aziraphale gave him a sad smile.</p><p>            “I know you would. You always have.” Before things could get much more maudlin, the blond cleared his throat, leveling an impish look at the demon.</p><p>            “As for Paris, I thought that went quite perfectly to plan.” Crowley’s jaw dropped.</p><p>            “You bastard!” Aziraphale merely smiled, hands clasped behind his back as he rocked on his heels, the picture of utter innocence to anyone who didn’t know him.</p><p>            “I believe you said something about escaping, my dear,” he prompted. Crowley shook his head clear. He and Aziraphale were going to be having a <em>very</em> long talk about Paris once this was all over.</p><p>            “Ngk! Yeah, right, escaping. So, right now we are in an isolation room miracle in Heaven that I modified. I don’t know what we’re gonna face when I bring it down. I ran into only Gabriel initially, but that was roughly fifteen minutes ago, so…yeah.” Nodding, Aziraphale walked past him, putting a hand against the wall of illusion, assessing Crowley’s adjustments. He smiled.</p><p>            “That was clever of you, using it as an emotional sponge. That should give us the advantage. How do we take it down?” Crowley grinned, drawing the sword and lighting it with Hellfire again.</p><p>            “Just like this,” he said, pressing the blade against the wall the same way he had earlier, sending a surge of power through it as a deactivation code of sorts.</p><p>            The effect was immediate, with the pristine, golden illusion shimmering away, leaving the stark reality of Heaven. Aziraphale gasped and Crowley belatedly remembered that the angel had no idea the havoc he had unknowingly wreaked on his former headquarters.</p><p>            “Astounding, huh? Stupid feather-brains didn’t set up the illusion to withstand an emotional state more intense than a human’s.”</p><p>            “Oh my! So, all of this was <em>my</em> doing?”</p><p>            “After a fashion. Pretty impressive, eh?” Aziraphale winced.</p><p>            “I don’t know if that’s quite the way I would describe it.” Crowley shrugged, sword hefted over his shoulder and glancing around the empty area.</p><p>            “As you please, Angel. Now do we go back the way I came or is there an exit, shortcut thing from here?”</p><p>            “Well, I expect if we keep going towards the opposite end of this room we should reach the hall that leads to the executive elevators, but Crowley? Is that <em>my</em> sword you’re carrying around like a cudgel?” The demon grinned toothily.</p><p>            “Sure is,” he confirmed, sauntering past in the direction indicated, “The Almighty Herself had it delivered to the flat.” The angel’s eyebrows shot up despite himself as he hurried after his friend.</p><p>            “Ineffability strikes again,” he muttered at last. Crowley groaned dramatically.</p><p>            “Eughch, I hate that word! You have to find a different one, I’m begging you.”</p><p>            “Perhaps,” the angel conceded, “In the meantime, why don’t you let <em>me</em> wield the sharp objects, hmmm?”</p><p>            “What? Don’t trust me?” Crowley swung the sword to-and-fro, enjoying the angel’s look of pained patience.</p><p>            “It’s not a matter of trust, my dear, merely a matter of more extensive training in the proper usage of that particular weapon.” Crowley feigned offence.</p><p>            “Oi! I’ll have you know I was making very proper use of this particular sharp object whilst rescuing you, yet again.” The angel gave him a once over, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>            “I’m sure you were quite marvelous, but remind me, dearest, which one of us was created to be a warrior?” Crowley laughed, eyes glinting over the top of his sunglasses.</p><p>            “Is that what’s hiding underneath all that softness,” he teased. He saw it hit wrong immediately. Aziraphale stopped mid-stride, his smile tightening then fading as his eyes went glassy and distant. Long practice enabled the demon to make looking away seem casual as high pitched alarms blared in his brain and he struggled to find a way to find a way to backpedal.</p><p>            <em>Stupid fuckin’ demon! Always running your mouth, never thinking before you speak and saying the one thing that’ll make the angel upset<a href="#foot42" id="foot42back" name="foot42back"><sup>42</sup></a>…Always going too fast.</em></p><p>            Crowley stopped walking too, clearing his throat and pushing up his glasses. He miracled the sheath onto the angel’s shoulder as he held out the sword.</p><p>            “Here, you can have it, angel,” he said softly, hoping the unspoken apology was apparent, “it’s not the sort of thing you want a demon’s unholy claws all over anyway, is it?” Dropping the blade into the angel’s arms he began sauntering away, fighting the instinctive imperative to snake out and slither into the first floor crack he found, as his mind ground out an endless round of: <em>Please, please, please, angel, please follow! I’ll apologize better later, I promise, just please, let’s get out of here!</em></p><p>            He didn’t register the hand that spun him, as he turned a corner, until he was slammed up against a wall. Sour breath fanned across his ear.</p><p>            “Don’t. Move.”</p><p>            Crowley, naturally, began thrashing immediately, using his semi-serpentine nature to his advantage. It did little except cause his glasses to fall and get him a sharp knife against his sigil, which stilled him instantly. The pulse of divine power emanating from it was threat enough. It pricked his skin and he felt it all the way to his core as a hiss escaped him. He could practically hear the smarmy bastard’s smirk.</p><p>            “That’s better. Now you just be a good little demon while we wait for our erstwhile principality, mmm?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>42</sup> <a id="foot42" name="foot42"></a>To be fair, Crowley hadn’t known his words were going to strike Aziraphale the way they did. It didn’t stop him from hating himself for having said them.<a href="#foot42back"> Back</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It took me a bit, but I finished this chapter! If you read chapter 14 before 12/30/2020, please considering rereading the end of it before starting this chapter, I added a little bit to the end. Let me know what you think! Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>           Aziraphale, for his part, was still staring, blank-faced, at his sword when a bell rang in the back of his head and his ring tightened almost imperceptibly. Looking up, he pursed his lips at the empty air. Really, what could have befallen the hapless serpent between here and the elevators? Heaving a put-upon sigh, Aziraphale hefted his sword and began cautiously moving to where Crowley had disappeared. He paused at the junction, reaching out and searching for the thin, dark thread of demonic energy that slithered over and around his friend. He couldn’t find it. Panic shot through the angel, his hands beginning to tremble a bit.</p><p>            <em>Easy angel. Panic only shuts down your brain, stops it working. Just take a deep breath and try again.</em></p><p>            Aziraphale smiled as Crowley’s words from aeons ago came back to him.<a href="#foot43" id="foot43back" name="foot43back"><sup>43</sup></a> Closing his eyes, he took in a breath, letting it out slowly. The trembling in his hands gradually stilled and he cast forth again, around the corner, searching carefully, thoroughly. He could feel something that <em>might</em> be Crowley, though it was suppressed by something, someone else. Opening his eyes, Aziraphale readied his sword and stepped around the corner.</p><p>            To his right were the elevators he had anticipated, to his left a boardroom. A few feet in front of him was Crowley, kneeling, hands shackled behind him, blood drawing a thin line from his temple to his jaw. The demon looked past him, silent, statuesque. His heart ached for his friend, but he didn’t let it bleed through, shielding his emotions as he had for millions of years, hardening his heart to everything except six millenia of suppressed rage. Stepping forward he swung the sword like a scythe, stopping just above Crowley’s head. Crowley didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Aziraphale eyes narrowed, but he did not yield his aggressive stance.</p><p>            “Show yourself, Sandalphon!” The command lingered in the air, seemingly unheard. Aziraphale waited. With a shudder, the atmosphere behind the demon shivered away to reveal the short archangel, smiling toothily, Aziraphale’s sword aimed squarely at his throat. There was a dagger in his right hand, pressed against Crowley’s snake sigil while his left hand curled around the demon’s neck and shoulder, forefinger idly caressing him. Aziraphale repressed the urge to retch, focusing on the other celestial exclusively.</p><p>            “Get your hands off my demon,” he growled, pressing the sword point further into the other’s neck.</p><p>            “Hn, hn, hn.” The sound that passed as the archangel’s laugh was unnerving, sending beetle feet up the principality’s spine. He did remove his left hand, regrettably, in the most disturbing manner possible, dragging his fingers across Crowley’s neck, eyes fixed on the principality. Still the demon knelt, unmoving, his eyes distant. Pressing the tips together, he brought his hand to his nose, taking in a deep whiff. His eyes slid shut in what Aziraphale tentatively classified as pleasure, disturbing as it was. Sandalphon groaned appreciatively, his lips pulling back further from his teeth, accentuating the bejeweled monstrosity between them, as he met Aziraphale’s gaze again.</p><p>            “Fear and damnation,” he drawled sluggishly, “a rare bouquet.”</p><p>            “Other hand too,” Aziraphale countered, resolutely ignoring the archangel’s baiting, “if you please.” Peripherally, he could see the dagger leave Crowley’s face, heard it clatter heavily to the ground. He could see a minute relaxation of Crowley’s facial muscles, which gave him a bit of hope.</p><p>            “Lovely,” he murmured.</p><p>           “Now the shackles. Off.” Sandalphon made no move to free the demon, clasping his hands behind his back. Aziraphale didn’t need to ask why, feeling the barely-there point of a sword at his own back.</p><p>           “Gabriel,” he acknowledged. “I was wondering when you were planning on joining us.” He could feel the surprise from behind him, and almost rolled his eyes, as if it hadn’t been obvious that Sandalphon was just a distraction.</p><p>           “Now that you’re here, perhaps you could tell Sandalphon to free Crowley so we can be on our way.”</p><p>           “Ha! You didn’t really think we’d just let you go, did you?”</p><p>           “No,” Aziraphale agreed sadly, “I didn’t. Though I had hoped…well…”</p><p>           “Aziraphale.” Crowley’s soft rasp drew the principality’s attention. A bolt of unearthly power pulsed through him, radiating outward from his chest as his gaze met the twin stars burning brightly in the demon’s. His fingers tightened on the sword as a small gasp escaped his lungs. A crazy, almost-certain-to-get-them-permanently-discorporated-plan unfolded in his mind’s eye. Aziraphale’s beatific smiled was all the warning Sandalphon had and it was nowhere near enough.</p><p>           A snap, a breath, and a heavy whoosh of released energy and Sandalphon was starring down the wrong end of a flaming sword and an impossibly free demon. Gabriel, on the other hand, was blindsided by the appearance of one gloriously arching pair of white wings, which clapped shut on his sword hand, feathers poking him in the eyes, nose, mouth, and every other possible orifice. Keeping a grip on his weapon was easy. Wings weren’t made to disarm, but the fluffy whiteness dominating his field of vision blinded him just long enough for Aziraphale to slash at the archangel’s wrist and cheek with Sandalphon’s discarded knife. Gabriel instinctively let go of his blade, stumbling back in shock. Aziraphale advanced on the stunned celestial, picking up the dropped sword in his free hand, his wings still arching high and bristling forbiddingly over the principality’s shoulder.</p><p>           Gabriel didn’t know what to do. His cheek stung and was bleeding, his wrist too. He couldn’t fathom how Aziraphale had pulled this off again. A cry from behind the white curtain of feathers and a solid <em>thunk</em> informed him of the second archangel’s defeat, if not demise. It had taken less than a minute for it all to go pear-shaped. A whimper stuck in his larynx and he considered miracling himself away, but a sharp look from the angel in front of him had him reconsidering. He heard boots heading for the lifts, the ding of the call button. Gabriel could feel the perspiration trickling down his suit, as each moment seemed to stretch on endlessly. A sword slid into a sheath, slim fingers reaching around white feathers for a black knife, a second ding.</p><p>           “Come on, angel, time to go.” The effect of the words was instantaneous. The fierce warrior disappeared, leaving an apparently fretful, fussing principality in its place. Wings folded back, revealing Sandalphon on the floor, pewter blood trickling from his side. He watched Aziraphale bustle over to him, whispering something in the other ethereal’s ear before heading for the elevator, appropriated sword still in hand.</p><p>           “I don’t understand,” Gabriel said, stopping Aziraphale just before he entered the lift.</p><p>           “How did you do it?” The principality didn’t turn around, looking instead at the demon lounging against the lift doors, but his words carried clearly.</p><p>           “These three remain: faith, hope, and love, but the greatest of these is love.”</p><p>           The lift closed. It was a long time before Gabriel got up.</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><sup>43</sup> <a id="foot43" name="foot43"></a>It had been the first time the principality had been drunk enough to forget how to sober himself up. His embarrassment after had been such as ensured neither of them ever mentioned it again, but Crowley’s words, the gentle amusement and care he’d radiated, ohh, Aziraphale had never forgotten it.<a href="#foot43back"> Back </a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ok, so I'm back! It's been a while, but life got crazy. This chapter and the next one will be pushing up the nightclub chapter with Auroch, so next update the nightclub chapter will be moved up when the new chapter is added just like it was this time. I'll make sure to make note of it at the beginning of the final chapter. Constructive criticism is always welcome and needed. Enjoy!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            Crowley slumped against the wall of the lift, heaving a sigh of relief that was echoed by the angel.</p><p>            “Well, that was fun.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him.</p><p>            “Hardly.” Crowley shrugged as silence fell in the slowly descending lift, taking the time to run a practiced eye over his friend.</p><p>            Once again, Aziraphale’s corporation seemed to have escaped unscathed, though his multiple layers made it difficult to determine if he had any bruising. <em>Typical angel, running into danger and coming out the other end intact, at least coporealy speaking.</em> He was tired, more so than he had been after the switch and everything last week, which was to be expected given what had transpired over the past 7 or so hours. Personally, Crowley was hoping he could successfully tempt his angel to a cat nap at least.</p><p>            Aziraphale gave him a strained half-smile as their eyes caught, his hands already starting to wring themselves anxiously, his eyes skittering away from the demon’s. Crowley tried not to frown.</p><p>            “What’s wrong?”  On instinct the principality froze, then fractionally relaxed his shoulders as he quickly arranged his expression into something less hunted. His hands hid themselves behind his back, ostensibly to keep them from continuing their previous actions.</p><p>            “Hmmm, what? Oh, nothing’s wrong. Still just a bit keyed up as it were. Nothing a bit of peace and quiet won’t put to rights.” Crowley was not fooled. He could see Aziraphale’s hand still clenching and unclenching around themselves in the distorted metallic reflection of the lift doors, could taste the sweat breaking out at his hairline, could hear the ‘fine-just-fine’ tone of his voice that he only used when he was not fine at all.</p><p>            Aziraphale was typically a nervous creature and had been since the day they met, probably had been since the day he was created. It was brought on by the angel’s intense desire to do well at his job, combined with his superiors’ constant belittlement and disapproval, his occasional blatant flouting of archangel directives, his own hedonism, and The Arrangement. Of course, it didn’t help that Heavenly time ran in an eleventh hour direction, causing Aziraphale to be constantly “just-in-time” for meeting, in much the same was as Crowley had never been anything except “too late” for his.</p><p>            That’s not what Crowley was seeing right now. Oh, all the typical anxious motions were there, ones Crowley knew by heart at this point, but, if Crowley was being honest, Aziraphale’s reactions reminded him more of his own flavor of anxiety, the sort that was built on years of jump-scares that ceased just long enough for you to relax and start to forget about them before they inevitably caught you again. It was Hell’s weapon of choice when checking in on employees. After all, if you’re doing your job, what’s there to fear from a surprise inspection? Crowley had built up a nigh impregnable wall of methods to deal with the jump-scare that was his head office over the past 6000 years, often irking his colleagues with his seeming insouciance.</p><p>            Aziraphale, by contrast, looked ready to bolt. Crowley wasn’t sure where the angel thought he was going to go, but he looked ready just the same. He could see his friend’s mind worrying at something, pushing it away only to draw it back in and look at it from another angle, striving to put off what looked to by the start of an overdue panic attack. As the heavy silence descended once more, Crowley grabbed blindly for a distraction.</p><p>            “So,” he drawled, pretending not to notice the way the angel jumped at his voice, “how did you know that would work?” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he pushed aside his anxiety and tried to piece together a bit of sense from the demon’s non-sequitur.</p><p>            “How did I know what would work?”</p><p>            “Snapping the shackles off. How’d you know it would get them off?”</p><p>            “Oh, that? I didn’t.” Crowley stared in astonishment.</p><p>            “What do you mean you didn’t know?!”</p><p>            “Just that, I didn’t know, not really. I just…oh dear, how to explain it?”</p><p>            “I swear to Go--- Someone, Angel, if you say it’s ineffable…,” he muttered darkly. Aziraphale smiled distractedly, a minute twinkling in his eyes.</p><p>            “Nothing quite that indescribable, dear. It’s just that it all happened so fast that I didn’t really have time to truly contemplate whether or not I thought it would work, I just did it.”</p><p>            “Those weren’t ordinary shackles, Aziraphale. You know that, right?” The angel nodded solemnly.</p><p>            “Yes…, I recognized them. Sandalphon is quite proud of his…implements.” Both being shuddered at the unspoken. Aziraphale cleared his throat and continued.</p><p>            “I know there’s no way it should have worked, but,---and forgive me the drama here---but, when our eyes met I knew in my heart that if I just aimed the miracle at the shackles, they would fall away. It sounds silly, I know, and if I’d thought about it at all I probably wouldn’t have done it but…,” he shrugged. Crowley smirked slightly.</p><p>            “So, not ineffable then,” he joked as the elevator signaled their stop. The doors slid open and the two immortals walked out.</p><p>            “No,” Aziraphale replied thoughtfully, “not ineffable. More, perhaps, like, deus ex machina.” Crowley gave the blond a look as he conjured a pair of sunglasses and headed out the door to the Bentley, which just-so-happened to be waiting at the curb for them. The demon turned to make a witty remark to the angel. He wasn’t there. Crowley turned a complete circle before he spotted the angel lingering inside the building, staring at the Bentley, his hands worrying each other again. Crowley strode slowly toward the inattentive angel, noticing that he seemed to be muttering something to himself. He knocked carefully on the pane of glass between them, startling Aziraphale back to the present. Crowley smiled, opening the door for him.</p><p>            “Come on, Angel, let’s get out of here.” Aziraphale nodded, avoiding Crowley’s gaze as he scurried into his usual seat. Purposefully not saying anything, Crowley slid smoothly into his own seat, pulling into traffic quickly. If he could just get the angel back into the shop, everything would be fine. He grimaced as he glanced at Aziraphale, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, eyes fixed firmly out his window, a muscle in his jaw twitching periodically. He placed a hand over Aziraphale’s, eyes steady on the road ahead, silently urging the Bentley on faster.   </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope to have the next chapter up for sure within the next week. I have about half of it written out already, I just have to find the time to finish it.</p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, so this was supposed to be the last add-in chapter before the night club scene, but it turns out that there will be a third add-in chapter. Sorry! Also, please excuse any inaccuracies with the depiction of these two entities panicking, I'm not a generally anxious person so I don't quite know how to properly write a panic attack in any form. Please feel free to offer constructive criticism on that or anything else, it is always appreciated. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>           By the time the Bentley pulled into its usual parking spot, Crowley was vibrating with tension. Even the Bentley seemed to sense that something was off with its passengers, having refused to play a single song the entire ride.</p><p>            Aziraphale stared out the window the entire time, his grip on Crowley’s hand becoming tighter and tighter the closer they got to the shop. For his part, Crowley was staring resolutely out the windscreen and fighting the urge to ask Aziraphale if he was okay; he was clearly <em>not</em> okay.</p><p>            “Angel?” Aziraphale blinked slowly as he looked at Crowley.</p><p>            “Hmmm?”</p><p>            “We’re here.” He pointed to the shop, giving the hands in his a squeeze.</p><p>            “Oh, so we are.” He didn’t move, eyes drilling a hole into the entryway.</p><p>            “We going in?” Aziraphale’s eyes refocused and Crowley watched anxiety, fear, and panic chase themselves across his face as he tried to control his corporation’s reaction to the idea of entering the bookshop.</p><p>            “Oh, well, yes. Yes, of course, we really should…,” Crowley stroked the top of the angel’s hand with his thumb, causing the blond to stutter to a halt, eyes caught for a long moment on their enmeshed hands before he finally looked at the demon. Crowley pulled his glasses down, letting him see the concern he normally hid.</p><p>            “We don’t have to go in, Aziraphale. We can go back to my place, save this for another day. It’ll still be here tomorrow.” Aziraphale gave him an unexpectedly sharp and searching look that the red-head wasn’t sure how to interpret, then forcibly relaxed his shoulders, patting Crowley’s hand.</p><p>            “That’s quite alright, my dear. I’m sure everything will be quite alright once we get inside.” Nodding, with a determination more forced than genuine, Aziraphale fled the Bentley with a rapidity that had the demon flailing to get out of the vehicle and into the shop before the door swung shut.</p><p>            Remembered flames licked at the base of Crowley’s neck and filled his mouth with chalky ash and crackling embers. Shaking himself both figuratively and literally, Crowley, pushed away the needless ache behind his eyes, commanding his spiraling brain to focus on the principality stopped in the middle of the shop, unbreathing.</p><p>            “Angel?” His throat choked on the endearment, his feet unexpectedly unsure of the floor’s solidity as he gripped the door knob hard, cool metal biting and starting to bend into his palm. Aziraphale turned, eyes wide with struggling panic, a painful mimicry of a smile pasted on his otherwise porcelain-still face.</p><p>            “See? Nothing to worry about, dear boy,” he babbled faux cheerily, clearly mistaking his friend’s choked plea for a concerned question rather than the cry for help the demon refused to admit it was.</p><p>            “Care for a drink?” Crowley all but ran into the back room, collapsing into the sofa just as Aziraphale bustled past at an equally rapid pace, returning shortly with a bottle of very fine single-malt scotch and two tumblers. He poured them both very generous portions. Neither noticed the other down it all at once.</p><p>            One bottle of scotch and two bottles of wine later Crowley was almost exactly where he wanted to be, not quite drunk, but certainly not sober. He chattered inanely to the angel about anything and everything he could think of that wasn’t fire, books, or death. It wasn’t easy, but Crowley’d had plenty of practice chattering his way through awkward situations. It was one of his unsung talents, really. He had only vaguely noticed that the angel wasn’t keeping up with his level of intoxication. The demon had been too preoccupied with staving off his own lurking panic attack to fully notice how Aziraphale filled Crowley’s glass more than his own.</p><p>            Silence had managed to appear as Crowley finished his discourse on the newest paleontological theories about dinosaurs. Taking a sip of his wine the demon noticed his friend staring morosely at his own glass. Deciding he was drunk enough to give his ancient Greek oratory skills some exercise, Crowley reached into the shelf behind him, long fingers searching clumsily for the scroll Aziraphale usually kept tucked away behind the Whitmans. Frowning, Crowley drew his friend’s attention.</p><p>            “Angel? Where’s that scroll of what’s-her-name’s poetry? You know, the clever Greek girl, blondish-brown hair?”</p><p>            “Sappho?”</p><p>            “Yes!” Crowley exclaimed excitedly, “Sappho! Her! You used to have a scroll of her poems over here, but I can’t seem to find the blasted thing. Did you move it? Surely you didn’t lose it?”</p><p>            “Of course not,” Aziraphale huffed, “it’s…it’s…,” He didn’t finish his sentence, his eyebrows furrowing.</p><p>            “You gonna finish that sentence, Angel?” Crowley prompted.</p><p>            “What? Oh, yes. I believe I may have moved that scroll upstairs.”</p><p>            “Yeah? Mind if I go…?” Aziraphale stood up and headed for the winding stairs with more alacrity than Crowley’s bleary brain expected.</p><p>            “No need, dear boy. I—I’ll just get it myself. Awfully hard to find things if you don’t know where they are in the first place after all. So, you just stay there and I’ll be back in two shakes.” Gone before he had a chance to argue, Crowley shrugged, settling himself more comfortably across the sofa and contemplating the likelihood of being allowed to stay here for the night.</p><p>            It could have been minutes or moments between Aziraphale heading upstairs and the distinctive <em>clesh!</em> of delicate china impacting a hard surface. Regardless, Crowley was immediately up, sobering himself as he raced up the spiral staircase.</p><p>            “Angel? You alright? Aziraphale?” Entering the door swinging open to the left of the stairway, Crowley’s breath caught.</p><p>            He had known the shop had a small set of rooms over it, but he’d never angled heavily for an invitation to see them, letting Aziraphale put him off with excuses of ‘nothing to see except an old, probably broken bed, and dust, hardly worth the effort’. Clearly the angel had been lying. Warm, dark, walnut paneled the interior of the space, complementing the tall, inset bookcases and slate-blue walls. A comfy-looking bed took up the rest of the space, along with a lamp and side-table.</p><p>            Crowley let out a low whistle, pushing down the hurt clawing at him. Aziraphale had every right to keep a space to himself. After all, it wasn’t like they were lovers or something. Till recently they had barely been friends. More like common, but indifferent acquaintances who occasionally did each other favors and sometimes drank together and took meals together. And with Crowley constantly invading every other corner of the shop, it would only make sense that the angel had set up a place for him and him alone, by himself, with only books and trinkets and no too-fast, desperate demons taking up precious time and space. It was perfectly logical, really.</p><p>            Clearing his throat, Crowley stomped firmly on his non-existent heart, sauntering over to Aziraphale, who appeared much paler than usual. He held on to a bedpost, fingers tight and white around it as his shoulders shook. A delicate bone china cup and saucer lay shattered on the floor. With a thought, Crowley miracled the cup and saucer fixed, stepping around to hand them to the unmoving angel.      </p><p>            “You know,” he started, only to stop when he noticed Aziraphale had moved across the room in the last five seconds, eyeing the demon warily from his new place by the bookshelves.</p><p>            “You know,” he started again. “I’ve never actually been up here before.” He took a few slow steps toward the principality, stopping when his tension only seemed to increase.</p><p>            “I thought it was all dusty and abandoned, but this is very nice.” A few more steps and he was nearly there. He could see now that Aziraphale wasn’t breathing. Nonetheless he cleared his throat.</p><p>            “Crowley, I, I think you should leave.” Crowley halted three feet away, puzzled.</p><p>            “Leave? Because I complimented your décor? Little harsh.” He took another step forward, only for the angel to take a step back in response. Eyes never leaving the demon, hands twisting together energetically.</p><p>            “Really, dear boy, it’s getting rather late and you should be off before…well, and I know how much you enjoy sleeping…,”</p><p>            “Could sleep here,” Crowley suggested softly, reaching out slowly for his friend. Aziraphale jumped away, eyes blinking rapidly as sweat beaded on his brow.</p><p>            “NO! I mean, no, that’s not necessary. I’m sure you’ll be much more comfortable in you own quarters.” Shallow, rapid breathing replaced the rapid blinking and Crowley grappled for some sort of hold in the conversation.</p><p>            “Angel, please,” he pled, reaching to brush a hand along Aziraphale’s cheek.</p><p>            Fear and fire kindled in the principality’s cold blue eyes as Crowley belatedly realized his mistake. The full authority of Aziraphale’s rank thundered in the demon’s ears, rolling painfully through his trueform as the angel’s hand came up to capture his wrist.</p><p>            “I SAID ‘BE GONE’!” Before Crowley could take a breath, Aziraphale released him, flexing his hand and sending a powerful miracle in his direction, throwing the demon physically and metaphysically out of the angel’s presence.</p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Update 3/5/2021: So this is still NOT THE NEW CHAPTER! Sorry! The newest chapter is chapter 17, so if you've been keeping up with this, you've probably already read this chapter before and need to go back a chapter. If you're new to this fic, enjoy!</p><p>Update 2/18/2021: So this chapter is NOT THE NEW CHAPTER! The newest chapter is chapter 16! I had to post it like this for timeline reasons. So if you are looking at this chapter and you don't know what happened in the heavenly elevator go back one chapter! </p><p>It took me a bit, but I stumbled my way out of a bit of writer's block and this is the result. Unfortunately, I must extend apologies to FantasyTLOU. I said I would explain how Crowley escaped in this chapter and I didn't do that at all. I think that'll be the next chapter? It will get explained! Short version is that when Aziraphale snapped he released the wrist shackles on Crowley.<br/>Also, working with a lot of male pronouns in this chapter, so please let me know if any part is confusing in terms of who is speaking and responding etc. Feedback is greatly appreciated. Enjoy and thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            The moment he entered, Auroch could feel it; over the pounding bass of the club’s DJ, over the sting of liquor and sweat and desire: holiness. Divinity dripped off him in syrupy strands, suffocating the miasma of lust, wrath, pride, and gluttony that typically suffused the club. He suppressed a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. It wasn’t that he was surprised, really. He had expected this visit over a week ago. It was just… tiresome.</p><p>            Motioning to his bodyguards, he muttered a few firm instructions and waved them off. They melted into the shifting shadows in a manner worthy of any demon and he couldn’t help being pleased, and a little relieved. His men were well-trained and more than capable of handling the puny humans that he had dealings with, but against an angel? Laughable. Rehiring and retraining was such a pain too. Yes, it was much better to keep them well out of the way and deal with this one-on-one.</p><p>            He tracked the ethereal glow of his visitor, losing momentary sight of them as they navigated his maze of a nightclub. Auroch smirked, sipping his vodka. The Minotaur’s Lair had been designed to be labyrinthine and lived up to its name, leaving the uninitiated hopelessly lost. It was only a matter of time, though, before his guest would figure it out and ascend in all his angelic glory.</p><p>            A scowl deepened the lines around his eyes and mouth and he rubbed at his ox-blood pendant, thinking of the inevitable ruination of his plans for this evening. He could already see people trickling out the door despite the early hour. This time, Auroch did sigh. Such simple creatures, humans; expose them to a speck of seraphic influence and suddenly the stupid sheep had morals and scruples. Downing the last of his glass, he signaled for another, pleased that it managed to arrive just as his guest reached the third floor.</p><p>            Poorly suppressed holiness and divine wrath spilled into the V.I.P. floor, rapidly convincing all patrons that this was exactly where they did not want to be right now. Taking his cue from the cautiously urgent retreat, Auroch called to the fast-approaching angel.</p><p>            “Do you know, my friend, I think the last time you and I worked so closely with each other was when Jezebel was in power. But remind me, what was the name of that prophet you were hiding? Elisha? Was that it? I managed to kill most of your prophets that time around, but you came through with an ace in the hole. I’ve never seen the like, even now, millenia later.”</p><p>            He grinned hospitably at the archangel now before him who glowered in return, his eyes stormy. Auroch was distantly grateful for the wards and charms he’d etched into the walls and floors of the building, allowing him to needle his rival with little fear as to the repercussions.</p><p>            “It didn’t work,” he grit out, hands flexing with what Auroch was certain was the urge to strangle someone.</p><p>            “To what are you referring,” he questioned, cocking his head slightly. He knew, of course, but the tightly pursed lips, bulging jugular, and sharp, impatient tone were worth the feigned ignorance.</p><p>            “You’re “miraculous” serum, you taurine leech! It didn’t work! And now he’s gone! Freed! Scampered off to God-only-knows-where with that…demon of his!” He stomped his foot at the last and Auroch rolled his eyes. Really, such drama for someone of his rank. He pushed a chair at the cross-armed celestial.</p><p>            “Sit.” Said celestial scowled, clearly more concerned with venting his spleen than in actually listening to anything Auroch might have to say. He scowled back. He was too old and too powerful to allow himself to be treated like some out-of-line cherub.</p><p>            “I prefer eyes at a level, especially yours. Sit!” He watched with amusement as the archangel drew up every bit of dignity he possessed to float serenely into the chair. He smiled patronizingly.</p><p>            “Much better. Now, if you’re finished throwing a temper tantrum like a five-year-old human, perhaps you could use your grown-up angel words and explain what exactly you want from me.” Despite the wards, he could feel the increase in bubbling angelic rage wash over his face like a steaming sea vent. He continued smiling amicably as his opposite struggled to keep a professional tone.</p><p>            “You told me your solution would hurt him, break him, kill him. Instead, all it did was make him sleep! And that’s not even mentioning the damage that’s been done to Heaven!” Auroch’s smile became a broad smirk.</p><p>            “I’d heard that Heaven was in the midst of some…redecorating.”</p><p>            “You still owe me…,”</p><p>            “I owe you nothing, angel. The serum worked precisely the way I designed it to, which you would have known had you bothered to listen to my instructions instead of giving him three times the dosage like some bird-brained dolt. I refuse to offer a refund for your revenge fueled fuck-up, especially considering the warnings I gave you regarding its potential lack of efficacy on an angel who can survive Hellfire.” The archangel leaned forward, poking Auroch’s suit-clad chest.</p><p>            “You listen here, you double-dealing bovine degenerate, you are going to---”</p><p>            “No,” Auroch cut him off again, snatching at the archangel’s wrist and throwing him onto the table, his other hand a heavy pressure on the divine throat, his teeth bared in a snarl.</p><p>            “You are going to listen to me, old friend. I am not a principality that you can intimidate and bully into submission. I am a Duke of Hell and this is my house, so we play by my rules.</p><p>            “I owe you nothing. My debit has been repaid. A debt, let me remind you, that I didn’t owe to you in the first place, but graciously allowed you to claim in the original owner’s stead. Now, I am going to give you an opportunity to leave here with some semblance of dignity. You can stand up, dust off that very fine suit of yours and leave. Our business is concluded and you never step foot in my club again.”</p><p>            “And if I refuse,” the flattened archangel growled. Auroch leaned closer, his lips barely grazing the angel’s ear.</p><p>            “Then I make sure that, regardless of the outcome of our ensuing battle, all of Heaven, from the lowliest Virtue to God Almighty knows exactly how much fraternizing you’ve been doing. Our mutual acquaintance was far from secretive about you and really, for shame. I watched angels fall for less.”</p><p>            Pushing away from him, Auroch fell back against his seat heavily, reminding his broad corporation that breath was not a function it really needed to follow through on. Slowly the archangel removed himself from the table, his manner one of restrained fastidiousness as he pushed his chair back in and straightened his suit, dusting it off carefully before giving the demon a blank-faced nod and heading diffidently for the staircase.</p><p>            “Do me a favor, old friend,” Auroch called just as the angel began to descend, “and give my regards to Elijah.” A slight twitch of the archangel’s cheek was the only indication he gave of having heard the demon as he continued down the spiraling staircase and out of the nightclub.</p><p>            Allowing his bulk to relax, Auroch conjured himself a generous glass of vodka that he immediately downed. Pyotr slid into the vacated chair across from his, serious brown eyes betraying his otherwise neutral expression.</p><p>            “So that was him?” Auroch nodded, eyes locked in a careful study of the empty glass in front of him as his corporation gradually eased its way into breathing in and out again.</p><p>            “Is everything okay?”</p><p>            “No, but since when is that new?”</p>
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